


Exactly Where We're Supposed To Be

by Jay Auris (nighthawkms)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, Comedy of Errors, Dogs, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, First Time, Ice Skating, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentioned Losers Club (IT), New York City, Non-Graphic Smut, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Romantic Comedy, Slow Romance, Soft Richie Tozier, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21920563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighthawkms/pseuds/Jay%20Auris
Summary: Eddie's first Christmas after Derry looks set to be a lonely night of takeout, Christmas movies and alcohol, until Richie upends these plans to give Eddie a kind of celebration he'll never forget.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 52
Kudos: 388





	Exactly Where We're Supposed To Be

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's that time of the year again. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Solstice, or Happy Holidays for whatever holiday you might celebrate! I hope you're spending the season with people you care about and who care about you. Remember, no matter what kind of family you have - biological or found - you are loved.
> 
> Title of the fic comes from [Ho Ho Hopefully by The Maine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AUmi6iyQk8)

The December winds always hit New York just around the time Eddie is getting used to the chill of autumn, and the winter after reuniting with the Losers Club is no different.

Every year, like any New Yorker worth their salt, Eddie grits his teeth against the cold and spits insults about the tourists who converge on lower Manhattan. Blocking up the sidewalks, shivering in their paper-thin leggings and denim jeans, poorly prepared for a place where the soaring skyscrapers tunnel the wind through every street, under every scarf or hat not pulled on tight. You can tell a tourist from a native, because real New Yorkers either keep their asses moving, or call you a pussy for whining about a little cold.

But the winter after that life-changing summer in Derry, fresh in his own Midtown two-bedroom - he’s forty, he’s not moving to fucking _Brooklyn_ , no matter how desperate - divorce proceedings well underway, Eddie gets a little rebellious. Myra always insisted that Eddie not step a foot outside their apartment unless he was bundled in under armor, a sweater, and a goose-down jacket - enough layers to explore the Arctic, much less the streets of Manhattan. This year, Eddie thinks, fuck that. He’s a fuckin’ New Yorker, for Christ’s sake! He can handle a little cold.

So on the first windy day in December, Eddie forgoes his under armor, his sweater, and his goose-down jacket, wearing only his thick wool coat as he heads out of his apartment. He takes his scarf but leaves his hat, because his hair looks especially fucking nice today, and a little wind-blown scruffiness never hurt anybody.

Yes, Eddie thinks, checking himself out in the mirror on the way out the door. He’s an adult. He doesn’t need Myra to pick out his fucking clothes. This is gonna work out perfectly.

Seven hours later, Eddie slams open his apartment door, sneezing and cursing as he shouts into his phone, “I’m f-fucking cold, Richie, that’s what! I swear to fucking GOD this city was built before the concept of seasons existed because winter is fucking HERE and she’s a bitter bitch!”

“You know, some of us live in civilization,” Richie replies in an easy, teasing drawl. “Although I had to wear a light jacket when I walked to the Jamba Juice down the block today, and it was _agony_ , let me tell you.”

“Hey, hey Richie? Eat shit. Nobody willingly lives in LA besides clinically depressed celebrities, waiters trying to become clinically depressed celebrities, and rich Gen X yuppies. At least New York has some fuckin’ culture. What does LA have, traffic and miles of Botox facilities?”

“Hmmmm, sounding a little _bitter_ there, Eddie Spaghetti. I call you to grace you with my dulcet tones and I get this _chilly_ response? That’s just _cold_ , man.”

“How the fuck are you a comedy writer?” Eddie drops his briefcase onto his kitchen counter, yanking open the liquor cabinet door. “Is there just a subset of guys collecting income from shitty dick jokes and god awful dad puns? No wonder art is dead - Oooo, _yes_ , still got some left.” Eddie tucks his phone under his chin as he pulls the bottle of nearly empty Glenlivet - a gift from Mike after his trip to Scotland - out of the cabinet, pouring himself a generous few fingers. “So, what was your question again?”

“Just wanted to see what your holiday plans were. I remember you telling me about all those Christmases you spent with your mom-wife’s family and I assume you won’t be welcome there this year.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Eddie mutters, closing the liquor cabinet. He leans into the counter, swirling the glass and staring into it as he adjusts his posture. “Too bad I didn’t know this was happening last year, or I would’ve written down all her aunt’s good recipes. Think I can ask for those in the divorce?”

“I think you’re doing a fantastic job avoiding my question,” Richie wheedles. “Come on, Eds. I wanna hear all about this amazing Christmas you’ve carved out for yourself as a strong, independent gay who don’t need no man. _Yaaaaas qween_.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Richie. That’s just, like so fucking offensive and appropriative and-”

“Yeah, yeah, you can go collect your wokeness award later from your fellow kids, Eduardo. _Answer. The. Question.”_

“Well...”

The thing is, Eddie’s been vague about his plans because he hasn’t got any. With no living biological family, and Myra’s kin a no-go, Eddie sees himself ordering Chinese, watching shitty Christmas movies and maybe turning in early. Sure, he’s been _invited_ to plenty of places. Ben and Bev, Bill and Audra, and Stan and Patty have all asked - Mike’s doing a Tokyo Christmas, and he’s started a side Instagram which is just pictures of Colonel Sanders statues wearing Santa hats - but Eddie’s turned them all down. Being a third wheel to another couple’s happy holiday cheer just isn’t appealing this year.

Richie, on the other hand...

“I don’t understand why you need to know,” Eddie tries. “Maybe I’ve got a hot date. Maybe I’m gonna go out and party until three in the morning. Maybe I plan on drinking alone on my couch. One of those three things is the truth.”

“Eddie. Spaghetti. _Linetti Peretti Confetti!_ ”

“ _Richard_.”

“People who are friends will, occasionally, - and I know this might come as a _shock_ \- ask their friends about their holiday plans. Which in your case seem to be as nonexistent as your heterosexuality.”

“They really don’t pay you enough for these hilarious, nigh-genius level nuggets of humor, Richie.”

“Yeah, well. Analyze this, bitch - I’m coming to New York for Christmas!”

“Wait, what?”

“Yep. Richie Tozier, premiering live in Midtown at the famous Kaspbrak residence!”

“This is you inviting yourself over to my apartment for Christmas.”

“Limited tickets, on sale now!”

“Richie. Don’t you usually go to your sister’s place for Christmas?” Eddie remembers this from one of their dozens of conversations over the last six months, catching each other up on the last twenty years of their lives apart. It came up somewhere between Richie giving Eddie his opinion on all twenty-something Marvel movies, and Eddie blurting out his personal revelations about being a closeted gay man his entire life.

They still haven’t really talked about that one.

“Yeah, well, see... here’s the thing. Julia and Todd decided Aruba was calling now that the kids are all college- age, so I can either be a sad, middle-aged alcoholic on my couch or we can be sad middle-aged alcoholics together.”

“Damn. Can I pick a third option?” Eddie jokes. “That sounds fucking depressing.”

“Yes, well, with your help, we can stop this terrible fate from occurring. Whadaya say, toots?”

“Call me toots again and I’m blocking your number.”

“I know where you live, Edward Spaghedward. I will show up, seduce your doorman and break into your tiny-ass apartment.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Eddie counters, smiling into his glass. Really, he’d love to see Richie try to seduce Brandon, the straightest heterosexual since the invention of the Kinsey scale. It’d make a great comedy short; he’s pretty sure _America’s Funniest Home Videos_ is still on the air.

“I’m not hearing a no,” Richie says, his voice dripping with smugness. “So does this mean I have the go ahead to book my tickets?”

“Yes, yeah, fine!” Eddie says, unable to help the little laugh in his voice. “I’m working the twenty-third, but I’m off after that.”

“Any plans beyond the twenty-fifth?”

“I’m off until the new year, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So I’ll make this a one-way ticket, then. If you’re like any of my exes, eventually you’ll either throw me out or get so overwhelmed with lust that you’ll chain me to your bed and go to town on my rockin’ bod,” Richie jokes _._

Eddie laughs high, nervously, and tamps down on the little thrill of pleasure that curls up his spine. It must be the Glenlivet working on his nerves - it’s certainly not from the suggestive innuendo, or the idea of Richie flying across the country to spend the entire end of the year with him. He’s fucking forty, for Chrissakes.

Richie is his best friend. His very _heterosexual_ best friend. Anything that hints towards something more is just the product of Eddie’s lonely, yearning imagination.

“You uh, wanna do anything in particular?” Eddie asks, changing the subject. “I know Christmas is like, the worst fucking holiday to be in Midtown, what with all the touristy shit going on.”

“Eddie, my love, it’s cute that you think we’re _not_ going to do all the touristy shit ourselves.”

“Oh my god, I’m already regretting this.”

“Too late, bought my ticket!” Richie says, cackling. “You’re getting the full Richie Tozier tourist mode, baby! First thing I’m doing when the plane touches down is buying a Lady Liberty foam hat and one of those New York skyline snow globes from the airport gift shop.”

“Jesus Christ, Richie,” Eddie groans. “I can’t be seen with you. All of my street cred will be ruined.”

“Oh, I’m gonna ruin a lot more than that, baby.”

Eddie doesn’t ask him what he means, for his own sanity.

~

Richie is an adult, despite how he acts most of the time. So a month later, when he touches down at JFK, Eddie doesn’t pick him up at the airport. Eddie lets Richie figure out the labyrinthine subway system himself like he insisted upon, and Richie only shows up at Eddie’s apartment half an hour later than he said he would. Eddie already knew this would happen and prepared for this, telling his job that he would be in at ten because Richie is taking the red-eye and needs to be let into the apartment before Eddie can leave for work. Eddie prepares for all possibilities, and when it comes to compensating for Richie Tozier’s foolhardy, overzealous plans, he’s still the expert.

“Eds!” Richie sweeps Eddie up into a bone-crushing hug when he opens his door. Eddie instinctively presses into him, realizing how badly he’s missed Richie’s presence. Despite the newfound closeness of the restored Loser’s Club, they’ve only seen each other in person twice since the summer, and unrestricted access to Richie for possibly a week or more is highly appealing.

“Holy shit, Richie, what the fuck did you bring?” Eddie asks when he steps back and sees the not one, but two suitcases Richie has sitting behind him.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Richie snorts. “How many days were you packing for in Derry? Remind me.”

“Yeah but that’s _me_. You’re a fucking chaotic disaster, I was expecting a duffel bag with some t-shirts and toiletries, if you even remembered to pack them. Oh my god, you did remember to pack them, right? We can buy you anything but if you forgot your electric toothbrush we’ll have to go with a basic one, and those aren’t nearly as good for your oral health. Maybe we can swap the head on mine, but that’ll require sanitizing-”

“Nope, stop, let me get through the door before you start with your crazy.” Richie pulls his bags inside, stepping past the kitchen and rolling them into the living room, where he stops and looks around. “So this is... cozier than I expected.”

“It’s Midtown,” Eddie says, shutting the door behind him. “Apartments are like shoe boxes.”

“I was actually talking about the decor,” Richie says. “For some reason I pictured you as a guy who took one look at Christian Bale’s place in _American Psycho_ and thought, ‘yes, that’s my aesthetic.’”

“So psychopathic serial killer is my aesthetic?”

“Hey, snobby decor choices aren’t limited to the mentally stable. You ever watch _Hannibal_? Dude’s got taste.”

“I hate. All of these comparisons.”

Richie’s not wrong, per say - about Eddie’s choice of decor, that is. His beige couch is made of soft, cushy fabric - stain-resistant - and it’s paired with a plush blue floor rug that covers most of the pale wooden flooring. His coffee table is a rustic piece he bought on a whim - high off of mailing Myra the divorce papers - but his side tables are cheap IKEA pieces that match the cheap TV stand. He’s got some potted plans sitting on the lip of the bay window seat, and a couple pictures hanging on the wall, including the one they all took at their first meetup post-Pennywise, when Stan’s miraculous return meant that it was truly the first full reunification of the Loser’s Club.

The whole feel of Eddie’s living room is much more college-student-on-a-budget; the product of someone without the money or means to afford a better set up. Things gotten second hand, older, cheaper. But Eddie chose it all purposefully. If there was one way to differentiate his old life from his new, it was by avoiding the magazine perfect decor choices Myra always insisted on.

Maybe it’s a little ramshackle, a little mishmash, but it’s his.

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Richie continues. “Just unexpected. I like it, actually.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, pleased that he’s managed to surprise Richie in a good way.

“Yeah.” Richie yawns, stretching up full-bodied, the edge of his jacket and shirt skimming up to reveal the tanned sliver of his stomach - Eddie has a sudden, powerful urge to reach out and press his fingers to the skin, an urge that he resists. Richie continues, “Fuck, ‘m tired.”

Eddie moves past him. “Come on. We’ll settle you into the guest room.”

Eddie doesn’t ever really have guests, so the room is half set up as a home office, with a thin desk on the side wall and stacks of file boxes underneath it. There’s a queen bed and a small nightstand, but otherwise, this room is also very bare.

“Ooooo, that looks cozy,” Richie says, shoving his suitcases to the side and crawling onto the bed, making a delighted noise. The room gets a little cold, and despite Eddie’s teasing, he knows his LA-living friend won’t be used to the cold New York winter, so Eddie’s laid the thickest, warmest blanket he owns out over the bed.

Richie curls up on the middle of it, sighing happily and closing his eyes. “Okay, I’m good.”

“No way, get out of your jacket and shoes and put on some fucking pajamas, you’ve gotta have some to wear in those massive rolling closets.” Eddie scowls when Richie doesn’t move, and leans over to yank at the zipper of Richie’s jacket. “Come on, man. I gotta get to work.”

“So go,” Richie groans, nudging his shoes off and letting them clatter to the floor. He swats Eddie’s hand away from his zipper, pulling it down himself to expose the thin black t-shirt underneath. “I’m fine. I’ve slept in weirder outfits.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Eddie grumbles, tugging at the sleeves of Richie’s jacket. “At least take this off.”

He stops when Richie grips his wrist, peeking one eye open.

“Most people at least buy me dinner before I let them undress me,” Richie says, smirking when Eddie goes red-faced.

“That’s the most cliche fucking line I’ve ever heard,” Eddie snaps. “Re-hire your writers, you clearly need them.”

“ _Hurtful_ ,” Richie whines, letting go of Eddie and rolling over. This gives Eddie the opportunity to yank Richie’s coat the rest of the way off.

There, at least he’s not in his goddamn outerwear.

“You’d better not sleep the whole time I’m gone,” Eddie warns. “Gotta get on New York time now, buddy.”

“Mmmm, fine. Alexa, set- oh damn it, forgot I’m not home.”

“God, you’re one of those people, really, Richie?”

Richie scoots farther up the bed, yawning into the pillow. “Fuck off, you luddite. I love my robot girlfriend.”

“Here, give me your phone,” Eddie insists, catching the device when Richie tosses it to him.

He unlocks the screen, and is met by the sight of that same photograph from his living room. Except instead of all seven of them, it’s zoomed in on Richie and Eddie - Richie’s arm draped over Eddie’s shoulder, both of them beaming at the camera.

“Uh, what time you want me to set it for?” Eddie asks, swallowing down the nervous flutter in his stomach.

“What time are you gonna be home today?” Richie mumbles.

“Hopefully five-ish? I’m leaving early because of the holiday, but traffic is always murder this time of year.”

“Mmmkay. Set it for one, then.”

“Four hours alone in my apartment, god help me,” Eddie jokes, setting the alarm and putting Richie’s phone on the nightstand. “Don’t burn the place down.”

“You left the key for me, right?”

“On the kitchen counter if you need it.”

“Cool. Mind if I do a little decorating? This place doesn’t exactly scream ‘holiday cheer.’”

“Go nuts- within _reason_.”

Richie mutters a noise of acknowledgement but says nothing more, rolling himself like a burrito inside of the blanket.

Eddie can’t help but stand in the doorway for a few minutes longer, watching Richie’s breathing even out, listening to the soft, barely audible noises he makes. He looks so peaceful, so unnaturally calm. If Eddie was a little more naïve, a bit of a dreamer, he’d say Richie looks exactly where he should’ve been all along: with Eddie, in Eddie’s home. Maybe not in Eddie’s bed per se, but close enough.

Eddie’s a realist, through and through, and knows this is only temporary. So he enjoys the moment, and then shuts the door, putting the man out of his mind as best he can. There are still six work hours until he can fully immerse himself in the holiday spirit and Richie’s gratifying presence.

Yeah, today’s gonna suck.

~

Eddie gets a little work done, but the load is light, and anyway, he’s too keyed up to work on anything that requires a lot of concentration. By the time 4:15 rolls around, he’s jiggling his knees under his desk, flicking the tab on the fidget cube his therapist suggested he try to calm his nerves, ready to run out the door.

The clock hits 4:18 and Eddie thinks, fuck it, grabbing his work bag, purposefully leaving his laptop on his desk because he will not, _will not_ do any work while Richie is with him. He waves goodbye to Calvin, the admin assistant, who looks relieved that the only overachiever dumb enough to stay this late on Christmas Eve Eve is finally leaving so he can lock the place up.

Eddie shoves his way onto the A train and texts Richie while he watches the numbers on the stops click upwards.

_Left a little early. I’ll be back in the next twenty minutes. I hope you didn’t sleep through your alarm, but if you did, you want me to bring anything back to eat?_

Richie’s reply is prompt, suspiciously so.

_don’t u dare buy food, u get ur cute patoot back here and eat what i’m making_

Oh God. Eddie hopes his kitchen has survived whatever chaos Richie has created by deciding to cook, a skill that Eddie does not recall him being good at. He frowns at his phone, typing back.

_Is it impossible for you to use English correctly? I know you got straight As in Lit class when we were in high scool._

He hits the send button before he realizes his autocorrect hasn’t fixed the word. “Shit,” he mutters, knowing what’s coming even before Richie’s next message pops up.

_SCOOL SCOOL SCOOL SCOOL SCOOL_

Eddie replies with 🤦♂️ _Fire extinguisher is under the sink if you need it_ and shoves his phone back in his pocket. He ignores the next ten vibrations, turning up his music and letting the soothing vocals of Mariah wash the Christmas spirit over him.

The smell of something savory wafts through the hallway of Eddie’s apartment, getting stronger as he approaches his front door. He can hear muffled music through the wall coming from the Bluetooth speaker on his kitchen counter; Richie must have figured out how to connect his phone. Judy Garland’s smooth, yearning voice croons _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ as Eddie opens the door, stepping inside and freezing at the sight in front of him.

Strands of snowflake lights are strung across the top of the whole perimeter of the living room. Red and silver garlands line the bay windows, continuing out in waves across the walls, with a rainbow of colored round ornaments hanging delicately from them. A white wicker reindeer sits curled up next to the couch, little red bells tied to its antlers. The coffee table, side tables and TV stand are trimmed with green garland, and it matches the brilliant green throw that’s draped across the back of the couch, the fabric decorated with a collage of woven presents and the words _Twas the Night Before Christmas..._ across the breadth. There are hand made paper snowflakes hanging off the wall and the ceiling, twisting gently in the breeze Eddie’s made by opening the door. The kitchen counter is trimmed with more red garland, little red and green hand towels hang off the oven, and half a dozen Santa, reindeer, present and tree magnets are scattered across the front of the fridge. Even the poles that the kitchen overhead lights hang from are wrapped in red garland.

And to top it all off, there’s a tree. A small but lush thing that takes up most of the bay window seat, the plants once there carted off to somewhere else in the apartment. It’s wrapped in silver garland, rainbow lights and dozens of small round ornaments. It’s topped with a star and draped with a red frock at the bottom. There are a few boxes tucked beneath it - Eddie explicitly told Richie he didn’t have to to buy any presents, and Richie replied that he needed to be committed if he thought Richie wasn’t bringing gifts - and it acts as the centerpiece of the magnificent, magical Christmas decor that’s taken over Eddie’s apartment.

“Richie, fucking _Christ_ ,” Eddie breathes, shutting the door behind him. He steps past the kitchen, into the living room, marveling at how the place has been transformed in just a few short hours. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

“Brought some of it in my carry on,” Richie says. He’s wearing one of Eddie’s plain blue aprons, an oven mitt covering the hand he points at the reindeer. “My dad gave my mom that thing their first Christmas together. She had an obsession with reindeer. And I found some old ornaments we made when we were kids too, they’re on the tree somewhere. As for the rest, well. You step into any store in a five-block radius and there’s Christmas shit vomiting from the walls, all on reduced sale. Oh, and I bought some tubs for storage so you don’t have to find a place for this stuff after the holidays.”

Eddie moves closer to the tree and spies a few unique ornaments: a badly painted partridge that was a classroom activity in second grade, a little picture frame with the original four Losers wearing Santa hats that Bill’s mom gave them all in fourth grade, and a laminated drawing Eddie did in high school of Richie with his mouth literally full of trash, hanging from green yarn. It had been a gag gift from Eddie to Richie that year, but also a bittersweet way to make sure Richie remembered him, since his family would move out of town the next year.

“I can’t believe you kept all this stuff,” Eddie says, gently twisting the laminated ornament over and reading the words inscribed on the back:

_Trashmouth,_

_Don’t forget about us when you’re famous!_

_Always your friend,_

_Eds_

“It was in a box in my closet,” Richie replies, stirring something in a pot on the stove. “I had a bunch of things from my life in Derry in an old shoe box. I never looked inside until I got home this summer, but I think maybe there was some part of me trying to hold on to it.”

“Even when we didn’t remember each other, some part of us did,” Eddie agrees.

“You know, I studied psychology in college, like an asshole.” Richie pulls the pot off the stove and rests it on the granite counter. “Freud talked about this whole ‘unconscious mind’ thing, although I doubt he thought a murder clown from space was the reason for it. But yeah, now this really feels like a Loser Christmas.”

“This place looks fucking amazing, Rich. You didn’t have to do all this.” Eddie’s a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of garland. Myra would’ve never let him use something so ‘gauche’ in their old apartment. She would’ve also nixed the paper snowflakes, called the snowflake lights ‘cheesy’ and insisted on a full size tree, with no homemade ornaments. It would’ve been expensive, tasteful, and so depressingly sterile. This is warm and bright and fills him with the kind of excitement for the holiday season he hasn’t felt in years.

“It’s cool,” Richie replies, shrugging and leaning down to open the oven door. “I had the time, and a home not being decorated for Christmas is just, like, fucking depressing.”

Eddie snorts and tugs his tie off. “Whatever you say, man. I’m gonna change and then I’ll help you with dinner.”

“It’s already done,” Richie says. “But you can set the counter.”

Richie hasn’t limited his decorating to the common areas. There are more paper snowflakes taped to Eddie’s dresser mirror, lights strung around the top of the walls, a little nutcracker on Eddie’s bedside table, and a Christmas tree pillow plopped in the middle of Eddie’s other pillows. Eddie smiles when he sees all the little touches Richie’s made to his bedroom. It’s something Eddie would never bother doing himself. The fact that Richie took the time in here, knowing Eddie will only be the one to enjoy it, stirs up a deep, constant affection for the man.

Eddie feels a brightness, a lightness, and it’s not just the decorations. Richie being in his apartment, his space, melts the icy cold of loneliness out of his bones.

Eddie has scarce few people he would call acquaintances in this city, much less friends, and he didn’t know how badly he needed that human connection until he found it again in Derry. He’s missed all the Losers, but he’s not ashamed to admit that Richie is the one he’s missed the most.

When he leaves his bedroom in a t-shirt and some old, relaxed jeans, Richie is slicing a honey-baked ham on the island counter. Eddie raises an eyebrow as he shuffles by, pulling the dishes and silverware out of the cabinets.

“What’s the look for?” Richie asks, flicking on Eddie’s electric knife.

“Do you know the kinds of fillers and chemicals they put into pork to turn it into ham?” Eddie asks. “There have been so many studies on the impacts of nitrates on the human body and how-”

“Eating ham one night isn’t gonna kill you, Eds,” Richie says. “Are you saying you’re refusing to enjoy this home cooked meal I’ve been slaving away at?”

“Of course I’m gonna eat it,” Eddie scowls, setting the plates down on the counter. “I’m just making you aware of the potential health concerns so that when you go home, you’re more conscientious about the frequency of your ham consumption.”

“ _The frequency of my ham consumption_ ,” Richie imitates mockingly, shaking his head and smiling. “Jesus, Eddie, there are so many other things I do that you could fret over. My drinking. My weed smoking. My furious crack addiction.”

“Excuse me, your _what now_ -”

“Kidding! Kidding,” Richie says, holding up his hands in surrender. “About the crack, at least. I’ve got some dank kush in my carry on. Medical marijuana, baby!”

“I am not getting high for Christmas,” Eddie says. “ _You_ are not getting high for Christmas.”

“Not even a little bit? I could make some bitchin’ edibles.”

“I’ll either eat your ham or smoke your weed. Your choice.”

“Is that a promise? Cause I can throw this ham in the trash right now if you wanna go grab my bag.”

“Cut the fucking ham, Richie,” Eddie says, unable to keep the grin off his face.

God, he’s missed this.

~

They end up lazing on the couch after dinner, letting the pots soak in the sink while they finish off the cheap wine Richie picked up. Eddie has to admit that Richie’s cooking skills have improved over time, going from _Oh God This Was Once Food?_ to _Contains Spices and Actual Flavor_.

He’s no Gordon Ramsey, but Eddie’s always preferred brunettes.

Richie is drowsy, still low on sleep and probably due to head off to bed any minute, even if Eddie will totally give him shit tomorrow for falling asleep at eight pm like a geriatric. He hasn’t moved yet, head tilting farther and farther to the side as his eyes shut and blearily jerk open every few moments. _Love Actually_ is playing on one channel, but they’ve both seen it a thousand times for different reasons - Eddie because Myra always insisted on watching it every holiday and Eddie secretly had no objection, and Richie because, when you spend your holidays on the road, the hotels always have at least one channel playing it - so it’s set at a low volume and neither of them are really paying attention.

Eddie’s talking about nothing in particular, relaying some stories about recent clients that he thinks are interesting enough to hold someone’s attention - or they would be if that person was awake enough. As it is, Richie keeps making agreeable little noises at all the right parts of the story, even as his head drifts farther and farther to the right, finally coming to settle on Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie pauses the story, glancing over and trying not to melt at the sight of Richie passed out against him. _Cute, cute, cute!_ He remembers Richie pinching his cheeks and calling him that. How the tables have turned.

“Hey,” Eddie says, nudging his shoulder up gently. “You should go to bed.”

“Not yet,” Richie mumbles. “Few more minutes.”

“You’ll be asleep by then.”

“Don’t care. ‘S nice. Keep tellin’ your story.”

“You won’t remember it in the morning.”

“Not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“More time with you,” Richie murmurs. Eddie’s heart leaps into his throat. “Keep goin’, please.”

“Okay. Yeah, sure. So, like I was saying...”

If that’s what Richie wants, far be it from Eddie to deny him.

~

Eddie wakes at nine the next morning to a pancake breakfast and Richie wearing elf ears. The food is another lovely surprise; he could get used to someone else cooking for him.

The ears, not so much.

“Oh my God, please burn those,” Eddie groans.

“What’s that? Sorry, can’t hear you,” Richie says, grinning smugly. “These ears are magic, don’tcha know. They only let me hear positive, cheerful messages about the joy of the holidays. No Scrooges allowed.”

“You look like Legolas’ drunk uncle,” Eddie complains, glaring suspiciously when Richie produces a jug of maple syrup from the refrigerator. Eddie doesn’t keep something that packed with sugar in the house - and now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t bought a box of pancake mix in years. Did Richie go out this morning and pick this stuff up before Eddie woke up?

“Wrong species of elf,” Richie chides. Like he’s a fucking _elfologist_ or something. “I think of myself more like Buddy the Elf’s cool older brother. He spreads Christmas cheer through singing, I spread it through jokes about your mom.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and takes the jug of syrup from Richie’s proffering hand. “I hope your diet is more varied and healthy than the four elven food groups, but this isn’t making me confident.”

“Oh, and what are those _four elven food groups_ again?”

Shit. “Come on, Rich, let it go.”

“Oh no, no, you brought it up, you fucking Christmas nerd.”

“It’s a classic movie! I can’t help having absorbed some knowledge by like, fucking cultural osmosis!”

“So you don’t have the Blu-Ray edition tucked in the back of your TV stand cabinet?”

“You’re looking through my shit now?”

“Technicalities, Elfie Spaghelfi.”

“Anyone ever tell you that’s not how nicknames work, dipshit?”

Richie leans forward into Eddie’s space, snatching the syrup out of Eddie’s hand before he can pour it over his pancakes.

“Hey!” Eddie yelps, scowling when Richie holds the syrup high above his head. Eddie could probably stand on the chair to snatch it back, but that a) is highly dangerous, and b) would give Richie so much fodder for short jokes. Eddie can only let him get away with a limited budget of those per year.

“Elf food groups.” Richie snaps his fingers. “Now.”

Eddie sighs, pressing his palms into his eye sockets. There’s no helping it. “Candy, candy canes, candy corn, and syrup.”

“Oh _Edward_ , you should be the one wearing these ears, not me.”

“You wanna sleep on the porch for the rest of your visit?” Eddie crooks his finger. “Give me the goddamn syrup.”

Richie snickers and flicks the cap open, pouring an unhealthily generous amount of syrup over the short stack in front of Eddie and holding his other hand up when Eddie opens his mouth to protest. “Don’t argue. You’d never let yourself have that much willingly. In the words of Retta, _treat yo’ self_ , Eddie, my dear.”

Eddie shoves half of a pancake into his mouth to avoid making a smart comeback, then realizes that’s a possible choking hazard and spits half of that back onto the plate, thoughtfully chewing the rest.

He’s got to admit, it’s a pretty good pancake. Not too tough, perfectly fluffy. Richie probably picked up the technique from his mom; she was a really good cook. Eddie remembers Saturday mornings at the Tozier residence after sleepovers, the four Toziers plus Eddie sitting down together around the dining table, delighting in whatever breakfast Richie’s mom and dad made for them. It’s one of the few happy familial memories he has, even if it’s not his own family (Sonia’s Sunday breakfasts were usually plain oatmeal or some kind of unsugared cereal, eaten in front of the TV while she fussed at him to eat slowly, chew more).

Eddie watches Richie pick up a full pancake with his bare hand, wrap it up like a burrito and deep-throat the damn thing. He doesn’t even consciously seem to realize how overtly sexual it looks, and Eddie hopes to God Richie doesn’t notice the red flush burning across the top of Eddie’s cheeks.

Jesus, with a mouth like that, Richie could really-

Nope, no, shutting down that line of thought. _Danger! Danger Will Robinson!_ Eddie hears in his own head. It’s in Richie’s voice, which just makes it worse, like Richie is no homo-ing Eddie’s brain.

After breakfast, they both abscond to their respective rooms to shower and dress for the day ahead. Eddie, having learned his lesson earlier in the month, makes sure he’s wearing his warmest sweater, a black Fair Isle pattern with little snowflakes across the chest. Richie, thank God, isn’t wearing the elf ears when he steps back into the living room, but his red t-shirt has a disturbingly sexy cartoon Santa wearing a brassiere and tights on the front, the words _I’ll Be Your Ho-Ho -Ho For Christmas_ emblazoned underneath.

“I am not leaving the house with you dressed like that,” Eddie says, folding his arms.

Richie glances down at his chest. “What, you don’t approve of this subtle pick-up line?”

“Who exactly are you trying to attract? Drunk sorority girls? Middle-aged moms with self-esteem issues? Fucking _Republicans_?”

Richie snorts. “Firstly, ewww to all of those. I like my women like I like my ex-presidential candidates: self-confident, age appropriate, and moderately liberal.” He smirks and shuffles closer, wearing a smile that’s too _knowing_ for Eddie’s liking. “Second, who says I’m trying to attract anyone at all? Something you wanna admit, Eds? I never knew that frat bro humor really got your engine revving.”

“You know what, fuck it, never mind,” Eddie says. “It’ll be under a fucking jacket all day, anyway.” He’s not going to rise to the bait, especially because he knows Richie’s just teasing him. It’s not worth it, to let himself get all flustered and give his impossible hopes any weight, only to be disappointed in the end.

Richie just laughs and drapes an arm over Eddie’s shoulder, tugging him towards the door. “That’s the spirit, Tiny Tim.”

Eddie has created an itinerary of activities for them to occupy most of the day, although Richie texted him halfway through the month and asked for control over what they’ll do tonight. He refused to give Eddie any information, requesting that Eddie just trust him. That makes Eddie nervous, because Richie’s past ideas haven’t always turned out great. There was the Sleepover Disaster of 1987, the carjacking prank that got Richie 100 hours of community service in senior year, and oh yeah, sassing the malevolent space alien that consumes fear that almost got the both of them killed.

Whatever Richie’s idea is this time, it can’t be that bad. Right?

Right?

Eddie had taken Richie’s request for hitting all the major tourist traps as serious as a heart attack. He normally avoids certain areas of Midtown in December; getting off subway at Penn Station will send any person with a lick of sense into a mild panic as the glut of tourists swallow them up. But it’s what Richie wants, and what he wants from Eddie on this trip, he shall have. Besides, it’s practically a rite of passage for any New Yorker, especially Manhattanites, to have family and friends come into the city and treat it like fucking Shangrala, taking pictures and marveling at statues and famous buildings across from the Starbucks that you get your coffee at every morning.

Richie isn’t starved for famous, tourist-enticing attractions in LA, surely. But even Eddie has to admit that there’s something magical about New York during the Christmas season. It’s the star of too many holiday rom-coms for a reason. Manhattan has glittering lights strung up every lamppost, and all the shops are decorated with garland and fake snow and tiny trees with tinkling ornaments. There’s a guy in every other subway station with a violin playing holiday classics that drown out the evangelical preachers, and carolers in Central Park. Restaurants turn on their fireplaces, hang green wreaths with red bows across the breadth of every wall, and add a hundred variations of eggnog to their menus. Sometimes it snows, and for a few minutes the city quiets down from a din to a clamor as the flakes force everyone’s eyes upwards, marveling that climate change has yet to destroy this type of weather.

What Eddie’s saying is, a guy could be forgiven for sensing romance in the air, even if he knows that sense is nothing but a fantasy.

“Hey Eds, look! I didn’t know you had relatives in the city. Come introduce me!”

Of course, _some_ people prefer to take a big shit all over that sense of romance.

“You’re fucking _hilarious_ , Rich.”

Eddie scowls, stalking over to the window that Richie is standing in front of: a display of elves holding boxes of presents twirling around in tandem on top of a giant golden reindeer head. He ignores the glare he gets from a woman holding a babbling infant - look, _Karen_ , your six-month-old isn’t gonna remember the rando cursing, so lay off - and folds his arms, eyeing the little gold-faced elves wearing pointy green hats and coats.

Eddie motions to the reindeer. “Why don’t you introduce me to your cousin first?”

Richie snorts, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, man, don’t be Carlos-Mencia-circa-2012 and steal my jokes. You need your own material.”

“Oh, because you're at the cutting edge of modern comedy? Like I keep telling you, I’m the average height for a modern American man-”

“Uh huh.”

“-and I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been smoking, calling me the short one when Bill is like, two inches shorter than me-”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“-and I’d like to point out you’re, like, the goddamn Jolly Green Giant, so if anything, _you’re_ the weird freak of nature, not me.”

“Hmmmm you’re still a little _short_ on valid points, Spagheds. Good try though.” Richie is wearing that dumb fucking dopey grin that Eddie would like to kiss off his giant, handsome, jerk face. But before Eddie can do anything, Richie rustles a hand through Eddie’s hair, and Eddie chokes off his response to avoid an embarrassingly loud sound of pleasure.

Karen over in the corner is covering her child’s ears at this point, so Eddie grabs Richie’s sleeve and hauls him away.

“Could you behave for just, like, five minutes, Rich? Because if you don’t shut up then I can’t shut up and the Midwesterners are gonna get spooked. You know Macy’s is just the first stop, right? There are gonna be like, fifteen more windows with elves in them and I’d like to not hear the same stupid shit at every single one.”

Richie looks delighted. “ _Why_ would you tell me this now, you absolute moron? Do you know how much time I have to prepare more fantastic zingers? Oh my god, I can’t take this excitement, I might just faint.” He groans dramatically and drapes his lanky arms around Eddie’s neck, pressing his face into Eddie’s shoulder. “Hold me, Edward.”

“Fuck _off_ , Richie!” People are definitely staring at them now. Eddie shoves Richie away with a forceful hand, speeding up his steps to have an excuse for why his face is now beet red and his breaths are coming in gasps.

Eddie is going to have a heart attack. What the fuck even was that? Richie can’t possibly understand what all this friendly touching is doing to Eddie; sure, they were always touchy as kids, but as adults, the contact feels electric, charged between them. It takes effort when Richie touches him for Eddie to not lean in closer, get his hands all over Richie, return Richie’s show of platonic affection with something a lot more... inappropriate to do in front of Macy’s Christmas window display.

Karen would be mortified.

“Awww, come on, Eds,” Richie says, catching up to him easily with his stupid, long legs that Eddie would love to have wrapped around his- anyway. “Where’s your sense of Christmas cheer?”

“Wherever you left your goddamn sense of propriety,” Eddie grumbles. “Come on, we’ve still got like five more tourist-traps to visit and getting down these streets at this time of year is a bitch.”

“Hey, hey. Hold on.” Richie grabs Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie is going to _scream_ , but he steels himself and looks up at his friend. “If you really don’t want to do all this stuff, we don’t have to.”

“You want to, though.”

Richie shrugs. “Yeah, but not if you’re not having a good time. This is supposed to be fun for both of us.”

Eddie sighs. “I am having a good time. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so touchy. You’re not really doing anything more obnoxious than usual.”

It’s a lie; Eddie knows exactly why he’s so touchy, but he’s not about to share that with Richie.

“You sure?” Richie asks. “We can do whatever you want, man. I just wanna hang out with you.”

Fuck, Richie looks so stiff suddenly. Serious. Since when is Richie ever serious about anything? Since when does he actually give a shit about what Eddie wants?

Well, that’s not fair. It’s more like, Richie seems to have a psychic intuition about exactly what Eddie wants, and Eddie just takes a while to catch up.

Eddie nods. “I’m sure, just. No more short jokes today, got it?”

“Crystal clear, Eduardo,” Richie says, giving Eddie a half-assed salute. The tension bleeds out of him, and he resumes the easy, relaxed slouch he usually wears. “I’ll stick to mocking your anal retentive germaphobia and implying I used to make sweet, sweet love to your mother. Rest in peace, Sonia. I guess your son will have to carry on the family tradition in your place.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Eddie reddens and swiftly turns back around, muttering “C’mon, asshole,” and leading them towards Bryant Park.

Fuck, this isn’t fair. Did Eddie piss off some god when he speared Pennywise through the face? Some patron saint of perpetual yearning now hell bent on making Eddie suffer every moment in Richie’s presence, knowing what he can’t have? Maybe Eddie’s supposed to be dead; maybe Richie wasn’t supposed to roll them both out of the way of that spiky limb, and now as punishment for defying fate, he’s trapped in an eternal hell of aborted touches and innuendo.

It’s not enough, Eddie thinks, keenly aware of the scant few centimeters between their hands as they walk side by side down the street. Not enough, to have Richie again after over twenty years apart, but to not really _have_ him like that scared, insecure teenage version of himself always wanted. Not enough to have these brief times together, a scant few days before they’re apart again for God knows how long. It’ll never be enough.

When Eddie was with Myra, there was an emptiness to it all. Days would pass, and Eddie would exist in a fog, moving from one obligation to the next, trying to fill the hole in his chest that yearned for something else out of life. And no matter how many counters he scrubbed or floors he mopped, how many weights he lifted or push-ups he did, how many nice suits or fancy cars he bought himself, that emptiness- that _loneliness_ never went away.

Seeing Richie again - as fucking _cliche_ as it sounds - brought the color back into his life, lifted that miserable fog.

It hurts, sometimes, how much Eddie loves Richie. There are nights where he’ll lie awake staring at his ceiling, wondering what a man three thousand miles away is doing. Whether he’s safe, whether he’s happy.

And God, Eddie wants him to be happy. But that happiness appears to be a painfully heterosexual one.

Richie has had a slew of girlfriends, all detailed in painstaking detail in his Netflix specials. He’s never mentioned an attraction to men, and even if he had, well. That doesn’t mean he’d be attracted to Eddie. Eddie, with all his anxieties and insecurities, as tightly wound as Richie is loose. If Richie was hypothetically attracted to men, he’d absolutely go for some kind of good looking smart-ass who could match him beat for beat, who didn’t have cabinets full of pills for half a dozen maladies he didn’t have, who doesn’t have a very particular way of sweeping the floor that ensures maximum dust pickup.

It’ll never be enough, but Eddie will take every scrap, every crumb of Richie’s time and attention he can get.

And hopefully, Richie will give it for a long time to come.

~

After the first window display, Eddie takes Richie to Bryant Park and they wander the kiosks, browsing all sorts of handmade goods; quilts and hats and scarves and wooden toys and jewelry and big wall art scrolls - and that’s just the first kiosk. Against Eddie’s protests, Richie buys two stockings, one with an R and one with an E, and promises that Eddies will be filled by tomorrow morning, “probably with booze.” Eddie obviously can’t allow himself to be outdone, so he resolves to find little trinkets throughout the rest of the day, sneaking off for a few minutes to buy a handmade _Dr. Who_ scarf that Richie was cooing over earlier, and ignoring Richie’s pointed looks at the obvious bulge from Eddie’s inner coat pocket.

When they’re both done shopping, Richie buys them both a cup of hot chocolate, and they crowd around the ice rink, sipping their drinks and watching skaters of various talents race across the ice.

“You remember the winter after Pennywise?” Richie asks. “The river was frozen over for weeks. We found two pairs of ice skates in Bill’s woodshed and took turns going across the ice. I don’t think my ass has ever been so sore- that’s what he said.”

“You can’t ‘that’s what he said’ your own sentence, Rich. That’s, like, against the point of the joke.” Eddie leans against the metal railing, twisting the cup in his hand and relishing the warmth it returns to his fingers.

He does remember that winter. Bundled up in an over-sized coat by his mother, Eddie could barely move until Richie lent Eddie his own coat from the previous year - broken in, soft, _smelled_ like him - and showed Eddie how to strap on the skates, how to take his first few wobbling steps out onto the ice, even as his heart clenched in fear. Richie kept whispering in his ear, “Come on, Spaghetti, I’ve got you. You fought a fucking demon clown six months ago, this is just a little ice. You’ve got this, gonna show this fucking ice it’s your bitch” and Eddie had giggled and leaned into Richie, so warm despite the cold winter winds.

The river had never frozen up like that again - climate change is a bitch - and that was the first and only time he’d gone skating.

“I’m the professional here, I’ll decide what jokes I can make.” Richie bites a grin at him, nudging his shoulder. “You think you’d be up for another round on the ice some time?”

Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, don’t see why not? But if you don’t make a reservation here the line apparently takes forever. It’s not something we can do today.”

“Mmm, just gauging your interest,” Richie responds, sipping his hot chocolate. He has a drop of liquid on the edge of his lip when he lowers the cup, and Eddie would really love to lick it off him.

Fuck, this week is going to be hell if Eddie keeps thinking like this. He already jerked off in the shower this morning, but apparently once won’t be enough.

After the park, Eddie takes Richie to look at the Saks Fifth Avenue windows, and then - because Richie demands to see if the store’s “pretentious as fuck” reputation lives up to the hype - they wander through the aisles, staring at the displays from Dolce and Gabbana, Gucci, Louis Vutton and dozens of other high end brands. They end up in a shoe store on the top floor, and Richie flips over the display shoes to gawk at the prices, declaring that anyone willing to pay that much for a single pair of shoes is either rich as fuck or dumb as fuck (Eddie’s not going to mention the nice pair of men’s loafers he has tucked in the back of his closet that he bought from here. They were a splurge!)

Down at the chocolatier's, they split a box of four random chocolates - Eddie cracks up when Richie takes a bite of one and immediately wrinkles his whole face in disgust. Of course it’s cherry, Richie’s most hated flavor - and then end up in the men’s department, where Richie teases Eddie by insisting he needs to find a salesperson so Richie can ask where their selection of Hawaiian shirts is located. Eddie drags Richie out of the store before he gets the chance.

They visit half a dozen more window displays across Midtown. Richie demands they take dumb photos in front of them - Richie cowering under a giant Elizabethan puppet woman, Eddie running away from giant painted Japanese tidal waves, Richie with his tongue out about to lick a giant lollipop, Eddie holding a finger up to his lips next to a burrow of sleeping foxes. They squish together for a selfie in front of the _South Park_ window, and when Eddie looks at the picture, his expression in the photo is so fucking obviously lovesick for the man next to him that he lies, says it came out blurry, and has them take another one. He can send the second picture to their friends without getting a dozen side-eye, blowing kiss, and winky face emojis back.

Eddie refuses to tell Richie where he’s taking him next. It’s all the way out in Queens, which means Richie wheedles him for like, forty five minutes about what’s so worth going all the way out of Manhattan to see. He shuts up really quick though when they walk into one of the rooms at the New York Hall of Science to see a massive display of gingerbread houses, meticulously handcrafted and spread out over rows and rows of a sprawling village titled _Gingerbread Lane_.

Smothered in white icing snow, dozens of houses line the four tiered platform, each one covered in a unique variety of jelly beans and chocolate ovals and gumdrops, sugar-spun latticework and chewy gummy bricks, surrounded by marzipan lampposts, pretzel-stick train tracks and royal icing trees. They all have names written across the rooftops, things like _The Pumpkin Spice Latte Coffee Shop_ and _Cinnamon and Nutmeg Railroad Station_ and _Jon’s Eggnog Distillery_. There’s a clock tower that looks seconds from toppling over with how high it stands, and a large gingerbread train at the front iced in black and gold. Dozens of children peer curiously over the barrier ropes, and just as many adults gawk at the marvelous thing.

“Eddie... fuck.” Richie whispers, eyes as wide as saucers.

Eddie hip checks him, motioning to the literal children in front of them as if to say, _watch the language, buddy_. Richie just nods and scurries forward, Eddie not far behind.

Eddie knows that Richie loves this kind of esoteric, intricately detailed shit. Back when they obsessed over comics and sci-fi movies, Richie was like an encyclopedia of random, useless facts that Eddie still delighted listening to him babble about. Eddie isn’t obtuse, he notices things, like the way Richie can just rattle off the names of early 20th century movie stars as if he’s spent hours and hours reading their Wikipedia pages. When they were sixteen, Richie developed a fascination with planes and their construction, checking out half a dozen books from the library and devouring the information about something he’d never do. Three months ago, Richie sent him a text that said _Check this guy out, I’ve watched like every fucking video_ , and it turned out to be a link to a YouTube channel where a guy solved intricately made puzzle boxes; Eddie got bored after the first two videos, but Richie wouldn’t shut up about the rabbit hole of “puzzle box YouTubers” - Jesus fuck, and Richie thought ‘risk analyst’ sounded like a dorky job title? - for two weeks straight.

So this? A giant fucking gingerbread village, that Richie can spend an hour exploring every nook and cranny of, take dozens of pictures, and then probably watch a dozen more YouTube explainer videos on later? Eddie knows this is his shit.

“Eds, Eds, look,” Richie hisses, pointing to some minute detail of the display. “How the fu- how the heck do you paint numbers that small with _icing_? Holy sh- crap.”

Eddie just chuckles and shakes his head. “No idea, Rich. Maybe you should ask the guy who built it?” He motions to a table in the corner where a friendly-looking man with hair even longer than Richie’s is relaxing, wearing a Santa hat and chatting with children and adults alike.

“Yeah, definitely, like, after I go over every inch of this thing,” Richie replies, grinning with a childish glee.

Eddie enjoys the display as much as could be expected, which means that about twenty minutes in, he steps back and leans against a wall, shifting his focus to Richie instead. Richie, who becomes Andy fucking Warhol when he takes pictures; angling to get the right angle and shot composition. He’s surprisingly deft and careful when weaving around the other patrons, especially the kids.

Eddie’s never really seen Richie interact with kids. Now he watches as Richie squats down, pinching and zooming on his phone so a young girl can look through the camera and get a better look at the top tiers. Richie says something to her that makes her giggle in delight, and by the smile her dad is wearing, it seems like -shockingly - it was something appropriate for a child to hear. A little later, Richie catches a young boy who almost topples over the ropes, gently chiding the child and returning him to his mother with a breezy smile. Three teenagers approach him next, and from the snatches of conversation Eddie catches, it sounds like they recognize Richie and love his stand up. He takes silly face selfies with them in front of the gingerbread houses and Eddie knows those will probably end up on Instagram in less than a day.

It stirs something in Eddie, watching Richie be so relaxed and at ease among families. Eddie’s always been a little stiff around kids, but Richie has a natural air to it all, the complete opposite of what his crude, sad-sack-single-guy stand-up would suggest.

As Richie finally goes to chat with the village-maker himself, Eddie wonders, what kind of dad would Richie be? Does he even want kids? It’s something they’ve never talked about- not that they would have any _reason_ to talk about it. Not like it’s something they would need to _agree_ on.

Eddie should really get off this train of thought before it crashes. Hard.

“Hey.” Richie appears in front of Eddie, still simmering with energy but less so than when they first walked in. “Thanks for bringing me here, man. This was so cool.”

“Yeah, I knew you’d like it,” Eddie replies, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You ready to go?”

“Think so. This actually works out perfectly.” Richie digs out his phone, flicking through it, eyes scanning the screen. “Yeah, by the time we get back to Manhattan, we’ll be ready to start my portion of the evening.”

“So strip clubs, shots and all you can eat midnight buffets?”

“Nah, we’ll do that for New Year’s.” Richie slides an arm over Eddie’s shoulders, and Eddie can’t help but lean into it as they walk out. “I think you’ll like what I have planned.”

“If it has anything to do with elves, you are getting locked out of my apartment.”

“You know, you gotta make threats you plan on keeping.”

“I could totally lock you out!”

“Yeah, you _could_ but you won’t. You love me too much, Eds.”

Eddie says nothing. Richie doesn’t know how dangerously accurate he is.

~

Eddie’s never been to _Rolf’s_. He’s heard about the restaurant, but it always seemed like the place you’d bring a date, or where you’d spend an evening out with friends - in terms of the former, Myra was always stubbornly set on the same, familiar restaurants, and as for the latter, Eddie has few enough friends in this city, none of whom he could really designate as a social group. So, when he steps through the doors into the warmly lit restaurant, he’s struck by the sensation of leaving his city behind and entering a fantastic fantasy realm of dazzling colors, lights and smells.

The foyer entrance acts as a tease, letting you see just a little of what awaits. Eddie looks up and gasps as he enters the main room. The entire ceiling is covered in hanging green garlands dotted with soft white lights. Red, green, pearl, silver and gold ornaments in every size and shape imaginable - and translucent icicle ornaments - hang from and wrap in intricate designs around the garlands, trimmed with pink and brown lace edged in gold. More ornaments hang from chandeliers, and more garland lines the whole of the back of the bar, a large wreath covering the mirror on the wall.

On the edge of the bar, there’s a tree so stuffed with ornaments that it’s nearly impossible to see any of the green remaining. There are weird little dolls - Victorian children, Eastern-European Santas, angels playing harps and trumpets - hiding in places where the garlands meet on the ceiling. There’s a line of Santas in sleighs along the wall opposite of the bar, and a mother-fucking _Rat King_ doll sitting at the top of an archway of the garland as Eddie and Richie pass beneath. The rest of the restaurant is draped in more garland, more outlandish ornaments - changing to blue and purple bundles of baubles as they continue on towards the back. The setup clearly was designed for someone more Eddie’s height; Richie has to duck in some places just to avoid getting battered in the head with icicles or garland.

“Oh my god,” Eddie keeps saying repeatedly, as the hostess takes their jackets and leads them towards a booth in the back, as they slide into their seats, as she places the menus in front of them and says their waiter will be with them shortly. He can’t stop looking up. There’s just so much to look at! Eddie thinks it’s a humorous irony that Eddie just brought Richie to a place where he could obsess over intricate details, and now Eddie’s the one doing the same. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Richie replies. He’s got his menu in front of his mouth, but Eddie can see the mirth dancing through his eyes. “You know they keep this stuff up through May? Like, don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas decorations, but this would be one fucking weird place to be on St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Rich, this is so fucking cool,” Eddie admits. It’s gaudy and ostentatious and a little claustrophobia-inducing, but it screams _CHRISTMAS!!!_ from the rooftops, and the soft violin covers of Christmas classics playing softly in the background are the cherry on top. It’s a damn shame this is the first time he’s been here.

Then again, Eddie thinks, peeking over his menu at Richie, maybe it’s just damn perfect.

Eddie takes his time browsing the variety of options, everything very German and hardy sounding. He settles on the Sauerbraten, and when he closes his menu, he realizes that the offensive t-shirt Richie had been wearing earlier has been covered by a dark green button-up; only the red collar visible from under the button-up. It’s enough of a playful contrast to make the whole look seem very Richie, except a Richie who gives a shit about making a good impression.

“That’s a nice color on you,” Eddie remarks after the waitress takes their orders, and the smile he gets in return is painfully beautiful.

“Thanks,” Richie says, folding his hands on the table. He glances down at them, thumbs fidgeting together. Eddie can’t help but watch them too, the way the fingers flex, long and thick and definitely the subject of a thousand different of Eddie’s fantasies.

“We should totally take some pictures of this place. The others would have a fucking field day.” Eddie motions to a nearby doll that is creepier than the others, with wide, dead eyes; it could probably star in its own B-list horror movie. “I’m gonna send Mike a picture of that thing’s face, he hates this shit.”

“Mmmm,” Richie agrees, still looking at his hands.

Eddie frowns. “You okay?”

“Hmmm? Yeah,” Richie says. “I’m just. Really glad I’m here. I think I’d go a little crazy if I was at my sister’s, imagining you alone on your couch, eating takeout and watching shitty Christmas movies.”

Eddie swallows thickly, suddenly gripped with a thick knot of emotion. “Oh. I mean, you’d be alone on your own couch, too, right? Not at your sisters?”

“Right! Right,” Richie agrees. “Anyway, I’m glad we could do this, man. Today’s been fun.”

“Yeah, yeah it has. Although I’m curious about what you have planned next.”

“Just a couple things. I figured you wouldn’t want to stay out at some bar, doing body shots off drunk sorority girls wearing elf costumes until three in the morning.”

“No fucking duh. Is that the kind of shit they do in LA?”

“When last I checked in like, ‘06 or ‘07, yeah.”

“What the hell were you doing at a bar on Christmas Eve in 2006?” Eddie asks. “I thought you said your family always like, took the whole week together.”

Richie gets this look, this look like Eddie’s caught him in an awkward revelation. He thinks Richie’s going to blow him off with a joke, until Richie says, “I wasn’t really talking to my parents at that point.”

“Why the fuck not?” Eddie asks. This is all news to him. Richie’s never mentioned any conflict, and Eddie knows they were speaking before they passed away a few years back.

“We were having a disagreement,” Richie explains. “Just, stuff about the way I lived, and their refusal to accept it. I spent a couple years on my own until Julia gave them an ultimatum.”

“Julia sided with _you_ over them?” Eddie asks. Richie’s older sister was always the responsible, sane sibling, though she had a similar streak of wicked humor to Richie. If Richie was doing something stupid enough to have his parents on his ass, Eddie would’ve expected her to lovingly browbeat him into submission.

“It was a kind of thing she couldn’t not side with me about and not be a giant asshole,” Richie says.

He’s being purposefully vague, and it’s annoying Eddie. “What kind of thing?” Eddie asks.

Richie glances up at Eddie. There’s indecision in his expression, and Eddie wonders what could be so bad that he’s afraid to be honest.

Richie opens his mouth- and that’s when the waitress comes back with their bread basket, leaving an awkward silence in her departure that they both fill with silent chewing.

“Anyway,” Richie says, completely blowing off the question. “What do you think we’re doing tonight?”

Eddie shrugs. “The fuck if I know.”

“So guess.”

“Can I get a hint?”

“You should probably use the bathroom before we leave here. That’s it, that’s all you get.”

“That could be anything! There’s like, a dozen different activities I can think of off the top of my head that would require an empty bladder.”

“Oh yeah? Name three.”

Eddie holds out three fingers, curling them with each named activity. “Spending time in Central Park. Watching a movie in a theater. Riding the ferry- and yeah I know there’s a bathroom on that thing but there’s no fucking way I’m using that disgusting sty, and you know that.”

“So do you think we’re doing any of those things?”

“Probably not. Come on, I need a better hint, Rich!”

“Nope.” Richie presses his thumb and index finger together and makes a zipping motion across his mouth. “Any more hints and you’ll catch on.”

“I don’t like surprises,” Eddie tries.

“You are such a fucking a liar,” Richie shoots back, smirking. “You love surprises. You practically fainted from joy when your mom got you that Stretch Armstrong for your birthday when she had told you she wouldn’t. I could hear the screams of excitement from my house.”

“That’s such bullshit, that’s so not true!” Eddie knows Richie is egging him on, but he can’t help responding in kind. This is just how they work, the easy camaraderie edged with banter that - usually - remains amicable. Eddie hadn’t known how badly he’d missed it until he’d remembered having it.

“How would you know? You weren’t at my house.” Richie chuckles, reaches across the table, and pats the top of Eddie’s hand. “Hey, you’ll like it. I promise.”

Eddie grumbles but nods. “Fine. But I reserve the right to veto your choices if they absolutely suck.”

“Deal,” Richie replies. “Later, when my choice doesn’t suck, I expect some groveling. Ever gotten on your knees for someone, Spaghetti? Am I gonna be the lucky number one?”

“Nah, that honor goes to your mom.”

“ _Edward_ , how could you?” Richie gasps dramatically. “Did your mother and I teach you nothing about respecting people’s boundaries? She would be so disappointed in you.”

Eddie throws a piece of bread at his face.

~

“Richie.”

“Yes, Eddie?”

“Why are we standing here?”

“I’d think it’s pretty obvious.”

“Richie.”

“Hmmm?”

“Why the fuck are we standing in front of the Richard Rodgers Theater?”

Richie shrugs and points up at the sign above the bright, blinking lights that spell out the theater’s name.

“Again, pretty obvious, Eds.”

Eddie looks between the bright yellow billboard and Richie’s face, eyes widening when he realizes Richie isn’t joking.

“You got tickets to fucking _Hamilton?!_ ” he squeaks.

Eddie is a Broadway freak. How he didn’t realize he was gay after locking himself in his bedroom at fourteen to sing songs from _The Producers_ , _Phantom_ and _Les Mis_ for hours on end is a real head-scratcher. Theater was the one activity that he and Myra ever really enjoyed together; they met doing set construction in college. Eddie’s been to dozens and dozens of shows - he’s seen _Phantom_ at least six times, and _Wicked_ twice - but even he couldn’t snag _Hamilton_ tickets. He’s been on mailing lists, he’s set alarms at five am for when tickets go on sale, he’s stood outside at Ham4Ham on multiple occasions, but every time he’s come away empty-handed.

Now, Richie holds up two tickets, waving them in Eddie’s face. Eddie snatches them from Richie’s grip and scans them, confirming that they are indeed for _Hamilton_ and Richie’s not pulling some kind of sick, twisted joke on him.

“Richie,” Eddie says. “These are orchestra rows. Like, almost right up front. Really fucking good seats. You only knew you were coming three weeks ago, how did you do this? Did you like, sell a fucking kidney or something?”

“So, I may know a guy who knows Lin,” Richie says, using Lin Manuel Miranda’s first name like they’re fucking _friends_ or something. “I had to promise a few favors - selling the kidney would’ve probably been easier - but yeah. Surprise?”

Eddie can’t speak; honest to God, he’s about to cry. It’s not really about the fact that he’s about to see one of the hottest, most celebrated musicals of the last decade. It’s about the lengths Richie went to get these tickets, knowing they’d make Eddie happy.

Eddie wants to kiss him. Right here, in front of hundreds of theatergoers, Eddie has a fleeting fantasy of grabbing Richie around the waist, dipping him back and pressing their lips together. Crowds would cheer, violins would play, Lin Manuel Miranda would appear out of nowhere and do an improvisational rap expressing Eddie’s love for Richie.

It’s only the last frays of his sanity that stops Eddie from making that move. Instead, he pulls Richie into a bone-crushing hug, burying his face in Richie’s shoulder and definitely not crying, not even a little bit.

“So I guess I did good, huh?” Richie mumbles.

“Yeah, Rich,” Eddie says. “You did good.”

~

The seats are fabulous, the show is fantastic, and Eddie buys the cast album, even though he’s already listened to it an embarrassing number of times on Spotify.

They stumble out of the theater afterwards, arms slung around one another and giggling as Richie fails to reproduce the lyrics that Eddie keeps attempting to teach him.

“Enough, enough!” Richie says, snickering and dragging Eddie down the street. “Come on. One last thing to do tonight.”

The night is clear, cloudless and cool. Once they get away from the theater, Eddie notices that Richie hasn’t removed his arm from around his shoulder. The heat and closeness are lulling; Eddie should pull away, but he can’t bear to. Just for a moment, he can let himself pretend this is what this isn’t.

“Hey, be careful,” Richie chides, when Eddie stumbles over a bit of broken sidewalk. “Can’t go ice skating with a broken ankle.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Eddie asks. “Is that why you were asking me before?”

“Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, folks,” Richie replies, grinning. “That okay?”

“Yeah, sure. How far’s the walk?”

“We’re already here,” Richie says as they round the corner.

Close to midnight, the lower plaza of the Rockefeller Center is still packed with people, crowded around the edges of the ice rink. The gleaming golden statue of a reclining _Prometheus_ is lit with spotlights, and the large Christmas Tree behind it glitters with thousands of lights, turning away the darkness of the night.

“You’re shitting me,” Eddie says. “Don’t we need tickets? Reservations?”

“Already dealt with,” Richie replies. “That guy I know? Also knows another guy. Told you, I owe him a _lot_ of favors.”

Eddie has to laugh. Of course Richie, a man of a thousand connections, got them tickets to the most exclusive skating rink on one of the most sought-after nights of the year.

“I’m not sure you remember how bad I was,” Eddie says. “I mean, even Ben had more balance than I did.”

“Well, you’ll have to just learn so you can keep up with me.”

“Keep up with you? You think you’ll be skilled at this? Hah. I’d love to see it.”

Eddie eats his words, God damn it, because as soon as they get on the ice, Richie does a full pass around the rink, gliding smoothly along, while Eddie wobbles and tries to keep his balance.

Richie comes to a halt next to Eddie, grinning and holding out a hand. “Want some help?”

“I should tell you to fuck off,” Eddie grumbles, but he takes Richie’s hand anyway.

They start off slow, Eddie’s arm slung around Richie’s back and Richie’s arm around his waist. Richie helps Eddie find his center of gravity, and they take short, gliding steps, staying on the outside edge of the rink to avoid the other more competent skaters. Eddie feels a little foolish, watching an eight-year-old glide across the ice with more ease than he can, but he reminds himself it’s all about practice. Besides, his lack of skill means Richie stays close, eventually letting Eddie’s waist go, but taking his hand instead.

“See?” Richie says. “There are advantages to being so tiny; lower center of gravity.”

“Couldn’t even make it to midnight without another short joke, huh.”

“Oh Eds, the only joke here is your ice skating.”

“Fuck you, you fucking beanstalk!”

“Right back at you, gremlin.”

“Scarecrow.”

“Hafling.”

“You are such a fucking nerd. How have you ever gotten laid?”

“I’m sorry Eddie, you were never supposed to find out about your mother’s Tolkien fetish. She bought me those elf ears and called me Legolas whenever we were making sweet, tender-”

“Ew, shut up, shut up! That’s so gross!” Eddie smacks Richie on the shoulder halfheartedly, but Richie is cackling with laughter and Eddie can’t be mad, can only join Richie’s laughter with his own giggling that starts deep in his throat and travels out until it’s vibrating through his whole body.

A little too giddy, Eddie loses his balance and stumbles, yelping. But Richie is faster, grabbing Eddie by the waist and hauling him close, steadying Eddie’s footing.

“You good, man?” Richie asks.

They’re chest to chest, Richie blinking owlishly down at Eddie, and Eddie is so tempted to close the distance between them. The moment feels poised for romance. If this were a Hallmark movie, the music would swell, Richie would say Eddie’s name softly as a question, and Eddie would tug him down and slot their mouths together, finally, _finally_ making good on what the plot had been leading up to for the last hour.

But this isn’t a movie, so Eddie just nods, coughs awkwardly and pulls back.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, taking Richie’s hand again. “Come on, I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

~

By the time they make it back to Eddie’s place, it’s nearing one in the morning, and Eddie can barely keep his eyes open. He had so much fun tonight, but he’s forty and there’s not enough caffeine in the universe to keep him partying until dawn like he used to.

“What time do you- _ahhhh-_ wanna wake up tomorrow?” Eddie asks through a yawn.

“The fuck do I care?” Richie replies, echoing Eddie’s yawn a moment later. “Uh, I mean, are we going anywhere?”

“Not unless you planned something.”

“So Chinese takeout and Christmas movies it is.”

Eddie makes an agreeable noise and shuffles towards his bedroom.

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Mmmm?” Eddie turns back around, and Richie walks up to him, resting his hands on Eddie’s shoulders.

“I, uh, hope you had fun tonight, bud.”

Eddie smiles sleepily, reaching up to pat Richie’s hand. “It was great, Rich. Most fun I’ve had in years.”

Richie’s face lights up; not just with a wide smile but crinkles around his eyes and brightness in his pupils. Fuck, he’s goddamn gorgeous when he smiles, and Eddie put it there. He did that. That’s so fucking amazing.

“Cool, awesome.” Richie shuffles his feet, glancing skywards for a moment before meeting Eddie’s eyes. “So, hypothetically, you’d wanna do this again sometime?”

“Of course, man. If your sister ever takes another vacation during the holidays again, I’d love to.”

“Right, yeah.” Some of the brightness fades from Richie’s expression. “But what if I just wanted to come anyway? Whether or not she was home for the holidays?”

“What, come hang with me instead?” Eddie asks, covering his mouth at another yawn. “That’s dumb. She’s your sister, she’s family. Christmas is about being with family.”

“Maybe you’re my family too,” Richie counters. “You ever consider that?”

Eddie snorts. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“I don’t want the pity, Rich.”

“It’s not pity! What the fuck, dude?”

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie says, because he’s tired, and this isn’t an argument he wants to have when he’s half asleep. He steps back towards his bedroom, ignoring the bewildered look on Richie’s face. “Look, I’m gonna go pass out. You set an alarm for whenever you wanna get us up.”

“Eddie-”

Eddie shakes his head. “Good night, Richie.”

When he shuts his bedroom door, Eddie rests against it, thunking his head gently against the wood.

He’s not mad. Richie’s just trying to be a good friend. He wants to make Eddie feel less lonely around the holidays, and he knows Eddie’s a fucking sucker when it comes to giving into Richie.

And yeah, maybe they’re just as close now as they ever were, but six months ago, Richie didn’t even know he existed. So the idea of Richie just throwing his sister over for Eddie’s sake is- well it’s fucking ridiculous, is what.

It’s not like Eddie doesn’t want family. It’s not like Eddie doesn’t want _Richie_ for family.It’s just that, Richie wants to make him feel welcome like a brother, and, well, Eddie’s not into incest. So really, it’s better that Eddie keeps the boundaries up between them. Richie’s got his real family, his real future to consider.

Besides, what happens when Richie finds a partner, wants to get married, have kids, the whole shebang? Does Eddie get kicked to the curb? _Sorry, Eds, the missus really wants a Christmas alone this year. You understand._ Or even worse, _Eds, the missus loves you! Come watch us be painfully heterosexual together while you third wheel it in the corner and become ‘Uncle Eddie’ to our kids_.

Yeah, fuck that. Eddie doesn’t need the heartbreak.

~

A knock rouses Eddie from sleep, and he blinks, bleary-eyed, at the clock which reads 8:05am.

His bedroom door is cracked open, Richie’s fingers visible around the door. “Eddie? You awake, man?”

Eddie groans and sits up, rubbing the grit out of his eyes. “Now I am.”

Richie ducks his head in, smiling when he sees Eddie. “Merry Christmas, dude. Come on, time for presents.”

“What, you don’t wanna wait until later?”

“Fuck that, I’ve been waiting for the last month, I’m done waiting. Get your scrawny ass out of bed and get out here.”

“Hey, hey, fuck you. Maybe I want to sleep in!”

“Either you get up yourself or I’m throwing you over my shoulder like a damsel in a _Conan_ movie and carrying you out. You wanna give the people in the building across from us a nice view of your ass in boxer shorts?”

“It _is_ a nice view,” Eddie grumbles.

“Well, I’m glad all those body positivity seminars paid off for you, buddy. Now, chop chop!”

Eddie demands coffee before any unwrapping begins, because if he’s gonna get up at eight in the morning on Christmas, he’s gonna be goddamn caffeinated. While he waits for the water to boil, he notices presents tucked under the tree that weren’t there the night before; three or four new ones added to the small pile Eddie had put there himself.

When they’d discussed presents, Eddie had told him, if Richie insisted on getting Eddie presents, he wanted some very sensible things like socks and new work shirts, and one or two DVD sets of TV shows he liked. Richie had bitched and moaned about a lack of creativity, until Eddie had just told him to get something Richie knew Eddie would like, as long as it wasn’t too big. Eddie thought Richie would’ve gotten him something ridiculously huge to spite him, so seeing reasonably sized packages under the tree is a relief.

Richie ushers him to the couch as soon as the coffee is done, fidgety and practically bouncing on his toes.

“What’s gotten into you?” Eddie asks, sitting on the corner of the couch and curling his legs up. “Were you not kidding about that crack addiction?”

“Where would I get crack in this city? Don’t answer that. Just. Fucking open one.” Richie picks up the whole pile and plops them down on the middle couch cushion, then sits on the opposite side.

“Alright, alright!” Eddie says.

They take turns tearing open boxes, wrapping paper flying asunder onto the floor below. Richie’s gifts to Eddie are an eclectic mix; yes, there’s that _Buffy_ complete series box set he asked for, but also a genuine _He-Man_ action figure from the 80s that he’d never been able to acquire as a child, and a year’s subscription to one of those monthly healthy snack boxes that Eddie had always secretly wanted to try but couldn’t justify the cost.

Richie laughs when he tears open a small box with an _I <3 Intercourse (PA)_ magnet that Eddie had picked up on a business trip to Pennsylvania, and seems delighted by the well-made _Iolani_ Hawaiian shirts, straight from an island manufacturer itself, that will hopefully replace the god awful ones Eddie sees him wearing all the time in his Instagram pictures.

“And can’t forget this,” Eddie says, dropping a brand new jacket into Richie’s lap, the same leather one that was ruined in the sewers trying to keep the gash along Eddie’s side from getting infected with sewer water. “I didn’t wrap it ‘cause I didn’t have a box big enough, but I figured you wouldn’t care.”

“Shit, man, these are expensive,” Richie says. Even as he protests, he slides the thing over his arms, wrapping it tight and grinning all the while. “I hope you got it on sale. Thanks, Eddie.”

“Yeah, well, I owed you,” Eddie says, shrugging and rolling his eyes. “Figured it was the least I could do in return for saving my life.”

“I’ll save your life for free anytime, Kaspbrak,” Richie says, jumping up and pushing Eddie to sit back on the couch. “Stay here a second, I realized I forgot one more gift.”

“Hurry it up, Tozier!” Eddie calls as Richie dashes out of the room. “When we’re done with this, I’m making French Toast and I need you to crack the eggs!”

Eddie checks his phone while he waits. There are half a dozen messages from the other Losers in their group chat: a picture of Bev and Ben squished together on their couch, captioned _Merry Happy Holidays from the Marsh-Hanscom household!_ , one from Mike that’s just the Santa and chicken emojis, one from Stan and Patty saying _Happy Christmas slash first day of Hanukkah!_ , and last, a picture from Bill that Audra definitely took, because it’s of Bill, holding up an ultrasound photo and looking watery-eyed.

“Oh, shit!” Eddie gasps, sitting up straight. “Richie, I think Bill’s having a kid!”

“That’s great!” Richie calls back, finally returning. He’s carrying a larger, square box with a lid, taking careful steps as he places it in front of Eddie on the couch.

“You _forgot_ that one, huh?” Eddie asks, absolutely not believing him. “Well, hope it’s not another ultrasound because Bill beat you to the punch.”

“Believe me, Eds, when I’m carrying our lovechild, I won’t wait until Christmas to tell you,” Richie replies, winking and snickering at Eddie’s screwed up expression. “Careful when you open this, the contents are fragile.”

“What the fuck did you get me?” Eddie asks, gently prying the top off the box and looking inside. “Rich- Richie, _what the fuck?!_ ”

Curled up inside the box, resting on a thick red blanket, is the tiniest, fluffiest puppy Eddie has ever seen. It blinks its beady black eyes open, looking up at Eddie and yipping softly. It has light brown fur that poofs out to make it look like a cotton ball, and its little tail is wagging rapidly.

“You- you got me a _puppy_?” Eddie squeaks, frozen, watching as the animal pushes up off its front legs to scratch at the inside of the box, whimpering, its little nose sniffing the air as it stretches towards him.

Richie gently reaches inside and picks the puppy up, moving the box to sit on the couch across from Eddie. “Her name’s Spaghetti Junior,” Richie says, placing the animal in Eddie’s lap, where she immediately curls up into a ball between his knees. “She’s purebred Pomeranian. Won’t get bigger than a few pounds. Very easy to care for, does well in apartments.” He’s talking like he’s reading facts off a Wikipedia article. Eddie realizes he probably _did_ read articles, preparing for the argument he’s expecting from Eddie.

“Richie- you don’t just. Fucking _get_ someone a puppy for Christmas!” Eddie says, gently petting the dog on the head, his heart squeezing when she makes a happy noise. “Do you know how many animals end up in shelters after the holidays? Like, mom and dad wanted to surprise little Billy, but whoops, turns out he’s allergic to dogs!”

“Are you allergic to dogs, Eddie?”

“No, but that’s not the point!”

“You’ve told me a thousand times that Myra would never let you get a dog,” Richie says, resting a hand on Eddie’s knee. “You haven’t been living with her for the last four months, but you still haven’t gotten one. Give me one good reason you can’t handle a dog now.”

“I- I’ve never had a dog before!” Eddie says. Hell, he’s never had as much as a turtle. Sonia refused to allow pets in the house, afraid of the germs and fleas and the specter of phantom allergies - allergies that Eddie confirmed he never had with a test months ago. He’s never had to take care of anything or anyone besides himself - and even there, Sonia and Myra did a lot of that for him. He’s been learning how to take ownership of his choices since Derry - boy, did therapy fucking help with that - but a puppy?

“Well, there’s never a better time to start than today,” Richie replies.

“This is nuts! How’d you even know I like Pomeranians?”

“Before the one we saw in the sewers transformed into a horrifying abomination, I saw how you looked at it. You were fucking smitten, man.”

“You kept asking me all these random questions when we talked on the phone,” Eddie realizes. He remembers these odd little queries, seemingly out of the blue, like _My friend’s thinking of getting an apartment dog and his place is a similar size to yours, what size do you think your place could handle?_ and _dude watch this YouTube video of Pomeranian puppies, isn’t this shit fucking adorable?_ “So what if I said no? What if I told you I couldn’t do it?”

“Oh, that’s fine. I guess little Spaghetti Junior here will just have to come live with me then. I’ve got plenty of room and love to give her.” Richie reaches out for the puppy, and Eddie instinctively picks her up and tucks her against his chest.

“I am not calling this dog Spaghetti Junior,” Eddie sniffs, marveling at how soft and small she is. He’s afraid to drop her, and thankfully, she seems content to be held right now. “I’m coming up with a better name immediately.”

“It’s a family name, Eds! You’d deny her the long Spaghetti heritage?”

“I’m so sorry you’ve been held hostage by this idiot for so long,” Eddie says to the puppy, petting her head. “It’s okay, the competent adult is here now.”

“Hey!”

“Fuck! No pet store is open today, what am I gonna feed her?”

“Relax. There’s a big bag of dog stuff in the closet in my bedroom. Food, bowls, toys, training pads, a harness. See? I can plan for shit, Eds. I’m not entirely useless.”

“Let’s see,” Eddie mutters, picking the puppy up and holding her at eye level. She blinks and wiggles in his hands. “What kind of name is good for you?”

“You figure that out while I get the French Toast going,” Richie says, hopping up. “I reserve the right to take her back if you try to give her a bad one.”

“Like you have any right to talk! _Spaghetti Junior_ , Jesus Christ, Richie.”

“ _It’s a family name!_ ”

~

Several hours later, and Eddie proclaims that the puppy shall henceforth be called Ruby.

“Ruby Spaghetti Junior,” Richie drawls, lying on the couch, digesting breakfast. “I like it.”

Eddie sighs from his place on the floor, where he’s rolling a ball back and forth and watching the puppy chase after it. She can barely keep her footing, yipping happily. Eddie has known her for like three hours and already he would die for her. “You are the only person who’s going to call her that. I refuse to curse this dog with that name.”

“I guess I’ll just have to call every day then, so she hears her _full name_ and learns it.”

“You already call every day,” Eddie observes. “Nothing will change.”

“That a problem?”

“Fuck no, Rich. You know it’s not.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence. There’s Christmas music playing quietly on the Bluetooth speaker. Outside, the wind sputters and thumps against the glass windows, and car horns honk in the distance. The apartment still smells of syrup and butter, and there’s at least half a dozen slices of French Toast left in the fridge, because Richie is a ridiculous giant of a man but his four-eyes were always wider than his stomach. The thermostat is up to a toasty seventy-five because neither of them have bothered to get out of their pajamas yet and Eddie doesn’t own a robe big enough for Richie to wear.

Eddie rests back against the couch, watching Ruby dash after the ball, barking like it's personally offended her for daring to roll away. He barely twitches when he feels a large hand on his shoulder, glancing over to see Richie smiling lazily at him. Relaxed, ruffled hair, fond expression.

Fuck, Eddie thinks, swallowing. I should just tell him. I want him here; I want him to stay. But no, that’s not fair. Richie can’t give him what he wants. Still, maybe if Eddie just tells him...

“Hey,” Richie says, interrupting Eddie’s train of thought. “Merry Christmas.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, same.”

“You get everything you wanted?”

Eddie laughs. “Not like I was really hoping for anything,” he lies.

“Mmmmm.” Richie’s hand tightens on Eddie’s shoulder. “You sure? Nothing I can do to make this an even better Christmas?”

No, Eddie thinks. Nothing you’d be willing to do.

“How about you set up the puppy pads in my bathroom? And the cage near my bed?”

Richie’s grip loosens, and he pushes himself up.

“Yeah, sure. Can do.”

It’s the oddest thing, Eddie thinks, as Richie gets up. He swears Richie was looking for a different answer.

~

Eddie can stand this pajama party business for only so long, so after Richie sets up the equipment, they ensure Ruby is tucked away in her cage - because Eddie is not leaving her unsupervised for any period of time - and retreat to their separate showers.

By the time Eddie comes back into the living room, toweling off his hair, Richie is pacing the floor, talking quietly to someone on the phone.

“No, no, I haven’t- It’s not that easy, I can’t just come out and- Jules, I swear to God-”

“Oh, is that your sister?” Eddie asks.

Richie jumps. “Oh! Uh, yeah.” A loud chatter starts up over the speaker. “What- no, I’m not- but...” After a little more chattering, Richie sighs and holds out the phone. “She wants to say hi.”

“Really?” Eddie hasn’t spoken with Richie’s sister since the early 90s, and he wonders how Pennywise’s weird magic affected her. Did she also forget Eddie, suddenly remembering him six months ago? Did she always remember him, wondering why Richie never mentioned him anymore, but never finding a good moment to ask Richie?

Eddie takes the phone, unsure why Richie looks so nervous, and says, “Hello?”

“Eddie? Little Eddie Kaspbrak?”

Wow; that’s like a punch to the gut. Now he’s remembering how she used to greet him at the door, and even though her voice is the lower gravel of an adult woman, he immediately recognizes it as Julia.

“Not so little anymore,” Eddie jokes, raising an eyebrow at Richie, who’s hovering. Eddie shoos him away and Richie reluctantly goes into the kitchen, keeping a wary eye on Eddie. “Merry Christmas?”

“Yeah, man, same to you. I can’t believe I’m talking to you again; Richie told me how you guys all reunited after you got told your friend Stan died and went back home to find him very alive and very confused. What a weird world.”

“Yes, definitely.” Eddie can’t believe she bought that story. In fact, he’d bet money she hadn’t, but Eddie doubts the truth would sound any less insane to her. “I heard you’ve been making a name for yourself.”

“Oh, yanno, some Toziers take to the stage and write shitty low-brow comedy material for twenty years, and some get law degrees from Harvard.”

“Hah, you hated all those terrible stand-up specials too? I knew one of the Tozier siblings had to be smart.” Eddie grins when Richie flips him off with one hand, eating a cold piece of French Toast with the other like an animal instead of putting it on a plate. He’s absolutely doing it to piss Eddie off and it’s working.

“So how did last night go? Richie told me he pulled out all the stops.”

“It was pretty fucking fantastic, I gotta admit. Dinner, a show, ice skating. Hey, did you know he was getting me a fucking puppy?”

“I told him to be careful with that one, but he said he knew you better than I did. Was he right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, meeting Richie’s smile. “I really thought I was gonna win the gift war, but he knocked it out of the park.”

“Awesome. You know, I was kinda offended when he told me he was skipping out on our Christmas party to come see you? It’s not going to be the same here tonight without him.”

Wait.

Wait, _what?_

But- but Richie had told him- Oh.

Eddie’s smile falls.

“Y-yeah?” he stutters out, realizing he’s been silent far too long.

“Yeah, my kids have been bitching for the last two weeks. My twenty-one year old has been waiting to do shots with him- legally, because I’m a fucking lawyer and I don’t have time for that shit - since he was like fifteen.”

Eddie makes an agreeable sound, but he’s not really listening. He’s staring at Richie, who’s quietly putting dishes from the drying rack back into his cabinet.

Richie, who told him he was only coming here because his sister would be in Aruba.

Richie, who _lied_ to him.

Why would Richie lie to him?

A sick, sour feeling curls into Eddie’s stomach.

There’s only one reason he can think of, and if it’s true- Eddie will be fucking _furious_ with him.

“-sound good to you?”

“What? Sorry, I missed all of that,” Eddie says.

“I said, I know he wanted to come to yours this year, but I’m formally inviting you to mine next year. I want to see my brother and I know he’d be thrilled to have you there. Whadaya say?”

“Thanks for the offer. I’ll let you know as soon as I can,” Eddie says, because if his suspicion is correct, he’s not sure whether he’s willing to spend any more holidays with Richie. The sour feeling is curling into anger, and he needs to get off the phone, right now. “I should give you back to Richie.”

“Oh. Sure,” Julia says. “Well, Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, good to hear from you.”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just. Thank you. I don’t think Richie’s really been all the way right since we left Derry, but now- well. Having all his friends back has helped. You especially.”

God damn it, Eddie thinks, biting his tongue as he hands the phone back to Richie. He ignores Richie’s confused look and sweeps into his bedroom, shutting the door.

Ruby is whimpering and pawing at the door of her cage, so Eddie scoops her out and holds her, pacing back and forth, trying to burn some anger out. He takes deep breaths, knowing that Richie isn’t going to just leave him be. There’s no reason to explode yet. No reason to get himself so worked up, but he knows, he just _knows-_

After a few more minutes, Richie knocks on the door.

Eddie doesn’t answer, letting Richie decide whether to risk facing his wrath. Apparently, Richie has the self-preservation instincts of a cartoon dog, because he comes into the room and immediately asks, “Why’d you disappear?”

“When were you going to tell me?” Eddie asks, biting his lip and taking another breath before asking, “Or were you just never going to?”

Richie pales. “What did she say-”

“She said enough, Rich!” Eddie snaps. “If you wanted her to keep the secret, you should’ve fucking let her know it was a secret!”

“Look, I can explain,” Richie says, stepping towards him, wincing as Eddie takes a hard step back. “I didn’t want to freak you out, so I figured we could just kind of ease into it, yanno?”

“This isn’t the kind of thing you just ease into, Richie! You either lie or you tell the truth!” Ruby whimpers as Eddie’s voice rises. Shit, he doesn’t want to scare her, but he’s just so fucking mad.

“It’s not that fucking easy, and you know it,” Richie says. “It’s _never_ that easy.”

“Why? Tell me one reason why it’s not that easy.”

“Because what if you weren’t okay with the truth? What if it ruined things?”

“You know what ruins things? Being fucking dishonest.” Eddie curses, putting Ruby on the bed before pointing an accusing finger at Richie. “You knew if I found out I wouldn’t have let you come! I told you, Richie, I don’t want your pity.”

“Hey, fuck you!” Richie yells, and now he has the audacity to look mad. “You don’t get to decide what this is to me!”

“Yeah, well, you don’t get to decide what it fucking feels like to me!”

“Fine!” Richie throws his hands up. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I lied, but I’m not sorry for how I feel. I will _never_ be sorry for that!”

“What are you- this isn’t about how you feel!”

“Then what the fuck is it about? Explain because I don’t know what else it could be!”

Eddie takes a step forward, jabbing Richie in the chest. “The lying, Richie! Why don’t you try being honest for once in your goddamn life?”

Richie grabs Eddie’s wrist; not hard, but firm enough to push it aside. His eyes are on fire, and Eddie expects he looks about the same. “Oh, you want _honesty_? Now? You already know but you’re gonna make me spell it out for you?”

“I wanna hear it!” Eddie yells. “I want the fucking truth, tell me the truth!”

“Fine!” Richie yells back. “I fucking love you, you fucking asshole! Okay?! There’s your truth!”

Wait.

_Wait._

What?

Eddie opens his mouth, but Richie’s off on a tear that can’t be stopped. “Are you happy now that you heard me say it? You need the whole fucking explanation or can you figure it out yourself?”

“Rich-”

“I saw you in Derry and it all came back,” Richie continues. He pulls away, clenching his hands, open and closed, not even looking at Eddie anymore. “Everything I felt about you when we were kids, it all came back. And I knew you were married, and I wasn’t going to push, even when you told me you were divorcing, even when you finally fucking grew a pair and came out to us. ‘Cause that wouldn’t have been fair, right? Right on the heels of a divorce, coming to you and laying everything out, expecting you to handle all my shit while you were handling your own.”

Eddie swallows, squeaks out, “Richie...”

And still Richie continues.

“So, I waited as long as I could, but I couldn’t take it anymore, and, just- I didn’t just want to tell you how I felt. I wanted to _show_ you. I wanted some fucking _romance_ to it. Because you fucking deserve that, Eds- I know you don’t think you do but Jesus, have a little self-esteem!” Richie runs a nervous hand through his hair, agitated, twitching like a live wire and still refusing to look at Eddie. “I thought, what’s more romantic than New York during Christmas? I know you love that shit. I could take you someplace nice for dinner, we could see a show, do some ice skating. At the end I could stop being such a chicken-shit and tell you how I felt, but last night... I choked. Like it was my first open-mic night all over again. You always thought you were the coward, Eds, but turns out I’m the one who sucks at being brave.”

“Richie,” Eddie says again, his brain finally catching up with his mouth. “Wait, just hold on-”

“No, you can talk when I’m _done_ ,” Richie snaps, finally looking at him, wide-eyed, shaking like he’s about to vibrate apart. “I can’t keep it in anymore, man. You knocked down the emotional flood-gates, congratulations! So here’s the full, one-hundred percent Richie Tozier truth. I fucking love you so much that I almost cried that first night Derry, just realizing how long it had been and how much time with you I’d lost. It’s like- you ever do a thousand piece puzzle, and at the end you realize there’s one goddamn piece that disappeared somewhere between opening the box and now? And you search and you search but eventually you give up, and you learn to live without that one missing piece? Even though it just isn’t the same? Isn’t quite as perfect?”

Eddie silently nods, realizing he will not get to speak until Richie has run his course.

Richie points at him. “That’s you. You’re my fucking missing puzzle piece, but I didn’t even know there was a piece missing until six months ago! How fucking nuts is that? That’s some _Twilight Zone_ shit, man. Anyway, I guess my point is, I’m sorry I waited this long to tell you, but I wouldn’t have bothered if I didn’t think there wasn’t something between us worth exploring. So... whadaya say?”

“Richie,” Eddie intones. “I was mad because you lied about your sister going to Aruba. I thought you did it out of pity, so I wouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone.”

Richie looks at him blankly.

“I didn’t know how you felt,” Eddie continues. “I- would you believe I thought you were straight?”

Richie blinks.

“So,” Eddie says. “Um.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Richie says.

He turns around and walks out of the bedroom.

A moment later, Eddie hears the front door open and slam shut.

~

Eddie sends Richie a long string of texts - leaving a minute between each - that go unanswered.

_Please come back._

_I’m not mad anymore._

_Okay, I’m a little mad but only because you literally poured your heart out and then ran out the door._

_Kind of rude, Richie._

_I know you took your wallet. If you run back to LA without your luggage, I will come out there to give it back._

_Richie please come back please._

_You got to say how you felt in person, don’t make me say it over a fucking text message, Richie I swear._

_I’m an idiot who’s never been romanced so I can’t be held at fault for not seeing what you were doing._

_Please Richie._

_):_

_): <_

_D: <_

Eddie’s just about to compose a long, rambling message laying everything out when he hears a knock at his front door. He jumps off his couch and scrambles to the door, yanking it open.

Richie stands with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, eyeing Eddie warily.

“Oh thank _fuck_ ,” Eddie breathes, stepping aside as Richie comes in.

“I knew you were getting desperate when you started sending text-based emojis,” Richie says, shucking his coat off onto a kitchen chair. “I know how much it hurt you to type those.”

“I was fucking scared, Richie,” Eddie says, following him into the living room. He’s lowered the lights to a soft yellow glow that casts shadows in the worry lines of Richie’s face. “You have a reputation for doing impulsive bullshit.”

“What, like jump off a bridge or something?” Richie folds his arms. “I’m not that fragile.”

“No, not jumping off a bridge, dipshit,” Eddie says, approaching him. “More like, taking a cab back to the airport, buying a ridiculously expensive ticket and blocking my number.”

“See, that’s already too much planning,” Richie says. “That’s something _you’d_ do. If you were a coward - which you’re not.”

“Yeah I am,” Eddie says, holding up a hand when Richie looks ready to argue. “At least with matters of the heart.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Richie asks, as Eddie fiddles with his phone. A moment later and his speaker starts playing music.

“It means you made your grand gestures, so now it’s my turn,” Eddie says. He tucks his phone in his pocket and rests his hands on Richie’s elbows, tugging gently. “Can I have this dance?”

Richie glances at the Bluetooth speaker. “[Meghan Trainor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2P8RU_dHyi4)? Really, Eds?”

“It’s a Spotify Christmas playlist!” He refuses to admit that it’s his own, personally curated playlist.

After a little more persuasive tugging, Richie allows Eddie to guide his hands to Eddie’s hips. They rest there gently, tentatively. Eddie wraps his hands around the back of Richie’s neck, letting them clutch loosely together, fingertips brushing the skin. Richie shivers a little, but doesn’t move away.

“You ever dance with a guy before, Kaspbrak?” Richie asks, as they start to sway to the music.

“Can’t say I have. You?” Eddie asks.

“Once in college,” Richie says. “It was the mid-90s. UCLA was pretty liberal.”

Eddie lets Richie take the lead, choosing the speed at which they turn. He figures that it’s the least he can do, with Richie being a nervous, twitchy mess.

“All of your comedy,” Eddie says, and Richie quirks an eyebrow. “You only ever talked about dating women.”

“You watched all of my comedy?”

“Focus, Rich, not the point.”

“No, but we are coming back to that. And yeah, that’s the shit that sells to my demographic. If I talk about jerking it to fuckin’ Oscar Isaac or something, I lose fans.”

“And you’re okay? Being dishonest about that?”

“I used to be,” Richie says, shrugging. “I used to be okay with a lot of things I’m not anymore.”

“Such as?”

“Being alone. Having no real friends. Missing pieces of myself.”

“Fuck, man.”

“Yeah, well, you were a gay man married to a woman, you don’t have a lot of room to judge, Eds.”

“I’m not judging, Richie.” Eddie sighs. He slips one hand through the wispy hairs on the back of Richie’s neck. They’re soft, and Eddie enjoys twisting them around his fingers.

Richie looks so worn, defeated, like he’s expecting rejection. Like he’s expecting Eddie won’t understand what it is to hide a part of yourself, to forget that missing piece until you can’t anymore.

“You remember what you said to me, in the sewers?” Eddie asks.

Richie shrugs. “I said a lot of things down there. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“ _You’re braver than you think_. And I was, but I wouldn’t have known it unless you pointed it out to me.”

Richie swallows, smiling sadly at Eddie. “Nice to know I can say something smart once in a blue moon.”

Eddie slides his hands down, gripping Richie’s hands and stilling their movement.

“Richie,” he says, looking up at Richie beneath his lashes. “You’re braver than you think.”

Eddie doesn’t know if that’s what clinches it.

Maybe it’s the music.

Maybe it’s the glow of the Christmas lights.

Maybe it’s the realization that they’ve both been holding each other’s missing puzzle piece for thirty years, and God damn it, it’s time to be made complete.

Whatever it is, it ends with Richie curling his arms around Eddie and pulling him in, leaning down and capturing his mouth in a soft, yearning kiss.

Sunlight blooms out of the pit in Eddie’s chest, and he grips Richie’s elbows, making a pleased, satisfied sound.

Because finally.

_Finally._

Richie’s lips are still cool, chapped from the bitter winds outside, but his hands are big and warm and grounding.

Richie smells like coffee and sugar, sweet remains of a meal shared between two lost souls reaching for each other without knowing the other was reaching back.

Richie feels like starlight.

Richie tastes like _home_.

Eddie whines, pressing closer, wanting more, needing more. How has he ever survived without this? Three decades, three thousand miles, three little words and suddenly they’re _here_ , right where they always should have been.

Oh, he’s a goner. He’s lost in this.

Heat pools in Eddie’s stomach, stoked and flared by Richie’s thick, sturdy fingers slipping under the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt, whispering against Eddie’s lower back. Eddie shivers then, a soft gasp escaping his mouth.

More, he needs more. Too many clothes between them, too much time lost between them, he’s tired of waiting.

“Richie,” Eddie pants, fingertips stuttering on the edges of Richie’s jeans. “Richie, _please_.”

“ _Where_?” Richie groans.

It’s not a question of yes or no, but of how.

“Bedroom,” Eddie says, tugging him back by his belt loops. “Now, now, _now_.”

Richie grabs Eddie under his thighs and fucking _lifts him off the floor_ , pulling Eddie’s legs fast around his waist.

“ _Holy fucking shit_ -!” Eddie says before Richie’s mouth is on his again, searching, pressing, demanding to be noticed.

That’s the thing of it; everything about Richie has always demanded to be noticed. His mouth shooting off a never ending commentary, a body always moving, bright eyes and a wicked smile. And Eddie’s always been happy to watch. But now he gets to touch, to feel, to taste. Fucking hell, he gets to _be_ in the place where he and Richie breathe the same breaths, skin to skin, two sources of heat coming together into a raging wildfire.

Richie puts Eddie down gently on the bed in the guest room, crawling up over him, silhouetted by the ceiling light above. Eddie reaches up to stroke the prickly stubble of his jaw, marveling when Richie’s eyes flutter shut and he presses into Eddie’s touch.

“ _Please,”_ Eddie begs again. “I’m so tired of waiting, Rich.”

Richie tips his head, kissing the edges of each of Eddie’s fingers. “How do you want it, baby?”

Eddie tells him.

Neither of them are shy about getting naked, and Richie, goddamn genius that he is, packed condoms and lube in his carry-on bag. Foil tears and a cap pops open, and Eddie loses himself in the feeling of it, assured with soft murmurs and sweet kisses that Richie has enough experience to take care of them both, if Eddie will only trust him.

_You’re braver than you think._

Richie is thicker than the toys Eddie has tried on himself, and it takes a little more effort and a little more lube than he’s used to. Eddie laughs into Richie’s shoulder as he gently chides Eddie for trying to go too fast, the paradoxical impatience of a man who always warns others that they’re too impulsive, too quick to choose.

But then they’re _here_ , skin to skin, Eddie’s legs braced around Richie’s hips, Richie’s face pressed into the side of Eddie’s neck.

Richie rocks forward and Eddie cries out, arching, fingers scrabbling helplessly against Richie’s back. Richie curses and catches Eddie’s wrists, one in each hand. He clasps them in his own and pins them against the mattress above Eddie’s head.

His grip isn’t tight, just grounding. Saying, _here I am, I’ve got you, hold on._

Eddie threads his fingers through Richie’s, digs his heels into the small of Richie’s back and prays he can last as Richie rocks forward again.

There aren’t many words exchanged. No need, after a lifetime of teasing and comebacks, of _Trashmouth_ ’s and _Eddie Spaghetti_ ’s, of learned intimacy that comes spilling out to the fore now that they’re wrapped around one another.

Richie’s mouth is everywhere. Their hands and feet tangle together, reaching, finding. The bed creaks, their breathing a tandem seesaw of give and take.

Richie’s fierce, possessive gaze cracks Eddie open, splits him through. Refuses to let him hide away, to let him run from the truth of what they are to each other. Eddie returns that same intensity, tries to comfort the desperate vulnerability he sees in Richie’s eyes.

 _Here I am,_ Eddie thinks, squeezing Richie’s hand. _I’ve got you. Hold on._

Eddie cries out one more time, and the final pieces tumble into place.

~

“You didn’t say it.”

Eddie looks up from where he’s resting his cheek against Richie’s chest, his fingers curling and tickling through the thicket of chest hair.

“What?”

“It. You didn’t say _it_. How you feel. About me.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Eddie smiles, nods. “It might take a while. Where would you like me to start?”

~

Some time later, maybe hours, Eddie’s stopped counting, Richie leaves, but not for long. When he comes back, he has a plate of re-warmed French Toast in tow.

Eddie shrugs his boxers back on and sits up. He doesn’t complain that Richie hasn’t brought a fork, doesn’t whine about germs or bacteria when Richie picks up syrupy pieces of toast and hand feeds them to Eddie. He feels giddy, freer than he’s ever been, and if he’s playful, sucking Richie’s fingers into his mouth, lapping the extra syrup off Richie’s fingers, savoring the fire it sparks in Richie’s gaze, then it’s only because he’s so greedy now that he has what he wants.

They finish the French Toast, and Richie puts the empty plate on the nightstand before shoving Eddie back down against the pillows.

“You’re a fucking tease,” Richie chides, before picking a different part of Eddie’s anatomy to suck on.

~

Even later, Eddie watches the edges of the sun disappear over the horizon, and sighs to himself.

“What’s wrong, Eddie Spaghetti?”

They’ve moved to the living room, pressed side to side, trading lazy kisses while they watch the puppy scamper around the floor.

“It’s nothing,” Eddie says. “Just, this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had, and it’s almost over. I don’t want it to end.”

Richie chuckles, kissing Eddie's forehead. “It was memorable, wasn’t it? I wish it could last too, but that’s kinda how time works, man.”

“Yeah, well, time can blow me,” Eddie grumbles, which makes Richie laugh harder. “I’m serious! Why can’t it just stay like this? Tomorrow’s just gonna lead to the day after, and the day after that. And eventually, you’ll have to leave.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? What, you think I’m not coming back?”

“I don’t want you to leave. Any amount of time you’re gone will be too much.”

“Eds...”

“Ruby’s too little, I don’t want to take her on a flight, but if I try to board her and follow you out to LA, I won’t be there during this critical period and she’ll feel abandoned! So that’s not going to work.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Richie asks.

Eddie scowls. “Of course, I’m fucking serious! That’s like, one of the stupidest questions you’ve ever asked me, bar none.”

Richie looks at him quietly for a long moment. Then he gets up, going over to the kitchen and picking his phone up off the counter.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, standing up.

“Texting my agent,” Richie replies, tapping away on his phone. “Going to need him to set some things up.”

“Things?”

“Well, my place is in a choice location, so it’ll sell quick, but he’ll need to hire one of those fancy-rich-fuck moving companies to pack my shit. The New York comedy scene isn’t LA but I’ve already got a big enough following that it doesn’t really matter if I transplant.”

“Wait, hold the fucking phone,” Eddie says. He grasps Richie’s hands, tugging his phone away. “Are you nuts? You can’t just- just fucking drop your whole life in LA to move here!”

“Says who?” Richie asks, snatching his phone back. “I love you, Eddie, and you said you didn’t want me to leave. So I’m not leaving. What, did you change your mind?”

Eddie gapes at him. “Rich, that’s like. Fucking insane! And what if I want to move to LA? You ever consider that?”

“Do you?” Richie asks. “I thought you loved New York.”

“I love you more, dipshit!” Eddie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, don’t go making any big decisions tonight. We can discuss it later, come up with our preferred location. What, what are you smiling about?” he asks, because Richie’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Nothing. Just, it’s not even a question of _whether_ we want to live together. Only where. That’s kind of impulsive, Mr. Big Shot Risk Analyst.”

“Bullshit.” Eddie reaches up, wraps his arms around Richie’s neck. “There’s nothing impulsive about finally saying yes to something I’ve wanted my whole life. It’s the only logical choice.”

“Your whole life, huh?” Richie backs him against the kitchen counter, pressing their foreheads together. “Even when I was a lanky, dumb-ass teenager, obsessed with my dick and the worst taste in humor?”

“Nothing much has changed,” Eddie teases, laughing when Richie nips at his chin. “Yeah, maybe even then.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm what?”

“I’m currently reevaluating your judgement. You thought that was sexy?”

“You had the hots for a scrawny hypochondriac with a fanny pack!”

“It was the shorts, man! Please tell me you still wear shorts, oh my god, you do not understand how the thought of you in itty bitty little shorts gets me going.”

“I guess I’ll just have to stick with you to find out,” Eddie says.

Richie smiles, leaning in, mouth mere millimeters from Eddie’s.

“Merry Christmas, Eddie,” he murmurs.

“Merry Christmas, Richie,” Eddie whispers back.

And then he closes the gap.

**Author's Note:**

> For reference:  
> [New York Christmas Windows, 2016](https://nypost.com/2016/11/26/these-nyc-window-displays-are-dazzling-works-of-art/)  
> [The Gingerbread Lane Display](https://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/12/nyregion/new-york-today-a-sweet-devotion.html)  
> [Rolf's Restaurant Decor (video)](http://rolfsnyc.com/happy-holidays.html)


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